


Mad Honey

by GarudaDreamsOfRain



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlolly - Fandom
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance, Slapstick, Strong Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-11 16:45:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15976367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GarudaDreamsOfRain/pseuds/GarudaDreamsOfRain
Summary: The slimmest of plots supports this tale of awakening sensuality. Sherlock asks Molly to help him learn how to kiss properly. Who could say no?





	1. Chapter 1

Molly Hooper threw down her pen in frustration. Either there was something wrong with this toxicology report, or she was missing something. There was no way Mr. Barak had died from natural causes, but she couldn’t figure out exactly how he’d died. She thought there must be some kind of poison involved, but none of the tests she’d run had shown anything. Picking up the report she started going over it again, looking for clues, just as Sherlock rounded the corner into the lab, his coat billowing out behind him dramatically.

“Good morning, Molly,” he said, brightly. “How’s my favorite pathologist today?”

Molly glanced over at him. “Frustrated, Sherlock. How are you?”

“Wonderful. Stupendous. Right as rain.” He peered over her shoulder at the report. “Problem?”

“This isn’t adding up,” she sighed. “I’m missing something. What do you want, Sherlock? Do you need the lab?”

“Not exactly,” he said, his assurance fading. “I, um, need your help.”

“With what?” When he didn’t answer, she stood up and faced him. He looked suddenly worried and uncomfortable, a slight flush of pink on his cheeks. “With what, Sherlock?” she repeated, her hands stuffed in the pockets of her lab coat. “What do you need?”

He turned towards her slowly. “You,” he whispered, his eyes wide, beseeching. He took a small step towards her, pinning her with an intense gaze.

Molly’s brows began to knit together in a frown. “Oh, for god’s sake—,” she began. “Are you going to kill yourself again, because I really don’t have time for that right now. Too much hassle, finding a body. And lying to all those people for years…years, Sherlock!” She shook her head adamantly. “I can’t go through that again.”

“No, no!” he quickly assured her. “It’s not that. It’s…something else. A case. I need your help for a case.” He looked at her as if he hoped she could automatically deduce what he needed because he seemed loathe to speak the words aloud. 

If she didn’t know him, she might have thought he was embarrassed. But he never got embarrassed. He sailed through life seemingly without concern for other people’s opinions of his behavior. She huffed a little, crossed her arms, and raised her eyebrows, waiting expectantly through the deepening silence whilst he fidgeted. “Well?” she finally burst out, throwing her hands in the air.

“There’s a black widow hunting on the Côte d'Azur,” he blurted out. “She moves up and down the coast between Nice and Toulon. By my reckoning she’s killed at least four men over the last five years. She’s expected to be in Saint-Tropez in seven week’s time, and I thought—“

“—You’d play the victim,” Molly interrupted. “You’re going to throw yourself into the path of a serial killer by posing as a mark.” She rolled her eyes. “You come up with the stupidest ideas, Sherlock. What do you need me for?”

“I need help with some, um, physical aspects of the undercover work.” He looked a bit pained, and wondered if this was a good idea, coming to her for help. Now that he was saying it out loud, actually asking her, it did seem kind of foolish.

“What kind of physical aspects?” she asked, suspiciously. “I’m not chasing some murderess around the French Riviera with you, pretending to be your girlfriend or something. I don’t have any holiday time and I get sunburned too easily.”

“Maybe I should leave,” he said, reconsidering. “Never mind. Forget I said anything.” He turned on his heel, trying to bolt for the exit, but she dashed around him, cutting him off and stopping him in his tracks. 

“No. Tell me what you need,” she demanded, poking him in the chest with her finger. “I don’t want you going off half arsed, getting yourself killed. Or worse, arrested.”

“Really, Molly? Arrested is worse than killed?” he snipped. “Now I know your priorities. Anyway, this is just the prep work,” he explained. “I want you to teach me how to…” _Jesus this is difficult_ , he thought, trailing off. He was down to the reason for his visit now, and he was going to have to say it. He heaved a deep sigh, bolstering his courage. “I want you to teach me how to kiss properly,” he finished in a rush. The tips of his ears flushed pink. 

Molly cocked her head towards him sharply, not sure she’d heard correctly. “Beg pardon?” she asked.

“I need to be an experienced…lover in order for my plan to work,” he mumbled, looking at the ceiling.

“And…you think that I have a lot of experience with lovemaking,” she stated, evenly. He nodded, sheepishly. “That I am a…slut?” she said, the merest hint of a twinkle in her eye.

“No! No,” he hurriedly answered, near panicking. “It’s just that I...lack the practical experience,” he admitted, wishing he’d never asked. “I thought you might help me…learn things. Just the basics,” he clarified, with a spread of his hands. “After that, I reckon my natural, um, aptitude would take over.”

“Well, why don’t you get that Irene person to teach you? Isn’t that her…profession?” The bite in Molly’s voice was clear.

“No,” he answered firmly, with a shake of his head. “Not her. I…I don’t want that. She’s too…predatory. She lacks your warmth and kindness, Molly. I wouldn’t feel comfortable around her.” He paused for a moment, a thought occurring to him. “Hang on. How do you know about her?” 

“Remember that Christmas? When the not-her dead body was on my slab? The one you misidentified, by the way.”

Sherlock winced, recalling that disastrous day. “I did that on purpose. To protect her,” he answered, standing up straighter and settling his shoulders. He was feeling slightly more comfortable now that he’d made his request and she hadn’t slapped him outright. He looked her in the eye. “I meant, how did you know about her…profession?” There was a pause whilst he deduced the answer, and then he nodded to himself. “I’m going to kill John,” he declared with barely concealed irritation. “That man couldn’t keep a secret if my life depended on it. What other things has he spilled?”

Molly hid a smile and didn’t answer. “How about Janine? Weren’t you…involved with her?”

“Not really,” he said, shifting awkwardly. “I wouldn’t call it ‘involved.’”

“What would you call it, then? It was in the papers,” Molly countered. “ _Five times a night in Baker Street_.”

“Aw, she just made that up.”

“ _He made me wear the hat_ ,” she persisted.

“Christ, come on, Molly,” he said, with a roll of his eyes. “It was for a case. It was only a few kisses anyway. No tongues,” he hastened to add. “Sort of. And I just let her, uh, do all the work. We never slept together. I always found some reason to…postpone. Towards the end, actually, I was running out of excuses,” he confided. “It got difficult to put her off, believe me. She’s rather…strong minded.” He looked somehow simultaneously proud and embarrassed. “She’s a lot like you in that regard, Molly.”

Molly thought for a minute, took a step closer to him and laid a gentle hand on his arm. “Sherlock, have you ever kissed anyone properly?” The question hung in the air whilst he tried to figure out exactly how to answer.

“I…I have,” he said, studying his shoes now. “I’ve kissed you.”

“On the cheek. Once you nearly made it to my lips. But I meant a real kiss, Sherlock. On the mouth. With passion and desire and…tongue.”

“Um,” he hedged, so low she could barely hear him. “Not according to that precise criteria. Like I said, I don’t have much experience. I guess the most relevant time would be at uni. There were a couple of guys I knew, but they weren’t really interested in that part of my anatomy.” He shuffled back and forth, looking down, unwilling to meet her eyes. “We…used each other,” he explained, quietly. “They used me for sex, and I used them for…for drugs. It was never very, uh, satisfactory.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” Molly breathed, her eyes glistening suddenly, her heart aching for him. “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. Physical intimacy should be a beautiful thing between people who care about each other. It’s an expression of regard and respect. It wasn’t…right that they used you like that.”

“Well, I agreed to it,” he said, shrugging. “Even though I’ve never really been very interested in it,” he continued. “Sex, I mean. I wanted their drugs, so I…I just…let them.” He glanced at her quickly and was amazed to see compassion blooming in her deep brown eyes.

“Even so,” she said, squeezing his arm gently. “They shouldn’t have done that to you. It was…wrong.”

There was a silence whilst he thought about her words. He’d always been the weirdo, the freak, hated by everyone. He’d encouraged the distance between himself and others with his biting words and cruel deductive skills. It was much safer that way. In his world, it had been use or get used. No woman had really cared about him in the gentle way she did. He felt a sharp ache in his chest, like a shard of ice had begun to thaw.

“You know,” he said, musing out loud, “kissing and sex seem like such strange things to do. I mean, how do you get out of your head long enough to…enjoy it? Aren’t you thinking about how weird it is that your mouths are smashing together and your tongues are slopping around? And sex is just so…I mean, you push your parts together and wiggle about for a bit.” He shivered and looked at her beseechingly, willing her to understand. “It all seems so…messy and…juicy. Am I being weird? Is this...not good?”

“No, it’s fine,” she affirmed, softly. She rubbed his forearm, trying to ground him a little. “When you describe it that way,” she said lightly, with a gentle smile, “it does sound like an odd thing to do. I appreciate that you’ve come to me, Sherlock. Really. It must be difficult to…trust someone enough to talk about this.” He nodded curtly, returning his gaze to his shoes. He was suddenly nervous again. “You’re being very brave,” she said.

He shrugged again, his stomach twisting uncomfortably, not able to absorb her compliment, wondering why he’d come to her at all. This was agonizing, he realized, but some part of him wanted to continue, wanted her help, her understanding. There was a gap in his knowledge base that he wanted to fill, and there was something else hiding inside him that he didn’t understand, pushing at him. He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“I’d like to ask you a couple of questions, if you don’t mind,” she said.

“Okay,” he agreed.

“Do you, erm, get hard? You know, do you have…erections?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“And do you do anything about them when you get them?”

“Yes,” he said, a trifle defensively, looking over her shoulder at the wall. “Sometimes I…take care of it, and sometimes I take a cold shower until it goes away. That’s okay, isn’t it?”

“Yes, of course. That’s fine. Do you think about anything or um, anyone in particular whilst you’re taking care of it?”

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But I’m not going to tell you about that.”

“That’s fine,” Molly said. “Fair enough. If I agree to…help you, I just need to ascertain how much you know. Where you are with it, so to speak. Are you okay with that?” He nodded. She thought for a minute, sizing him up. “Sherlock, will you kiss me?”

“You mean here? Now?” he asked, incredulously.

“Yes,” she said firmly. “Right now. Lay one on me. Let’s see how much…instruction is going to be required.” She turned her face up to his and smiled gently, encouragingly, at him.

Sherlock glanced around the lab quickly, double checking that they were alone, faced her, took a deep breath, and lowered his head to hers. Molly thought he was coming in with a bit too much velocity, but before she could say or do anything, their noses bashed against each other and their teeth cracked together with an audible clack, sending an unpleasant shock through her upper palate. “Shit,” he muttered, stepping away.

“Ow,” Molly said, clapping her fingers over her mouth and pressing on her front teeth to dull the pain. “Sherlock, it’s supposed to be a kiss, not a frontal assault requiring dental work after.”

“Well, see…this is why I need your help!” he shouted, straightening up, frustrated and angry. He raised his hands and spun around. “How am I going to seduce this black widow if I don’t know what I’m doing? I look like an idiot. Stupider than Anderson which, technically speaking, _is_ worse than getting killed. Even he, the biggest moron on the planet, seems to know what he’s doing with this…in the sex department,” he continued, throwing a mini-tantrum of flailing arms and whirling coat. “Jesus, this is fucking embarrassing.”

“Okay!” Molly said. “Okay! Calm down, Sherlock. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to learn something. I’ll help you. It’ll be all right. We’ll go slowly. It might even be fun for us both.” She waggled her eyebrows at him with a grin before turning him around and pushing him towards the door. “Now, let me work. Come to my flat tonight. At seven. Bring some takeaway. And try to relax.” With a curt nod he scurried away, relieved to be making his escape, and with a sigh, she turned back to the problem of Mr. Barak’s unexplained death.

*****


	2. Chapter 2

Promptly at seven there was a knock on Molly’s door. She opened it to Sherlock, who was standing there with a takeaway bag in one hand and a large bouquet of daisies in the other. He passed the flowers to her.

“You knocked,” she said with some surprise. “Why didn’t you just come in like you normally do?” She took the flowers with a smile, carrying them into the kitchen and taking out a vase. She gave the stems a fresh cut and began to arrange them. 

“Seemed wrong, somehow,” he said with a shrug, puzzled by his own scruples in not barging into her flat uninvited. He hung up his coat, joined her in the kitchen, and started unpacking their dinner. “I got that fish curry you like. With the cumin basmati.”

“These are lovely, Sherlock,” she said, taking a deep inhale of the flowers’ sweet, spicy aroma. “Thank you.” She put the daisies on the table. “Oh,” she said, turning and getting a good look at him. He looked…amazing. Freshly scrubbed, closely shaved, hair artfully tousled, he was dressed all in black which enhanced his pale skin and piercing blue eyes. She detected the faint scent of her favorite cologne. He had made an effort, she realized. She glanced at her own clothes, an oversized old t-shirt with a stain on the tummy from brown sauce, and baggy sweatpants. Her hair was scraped back into a messy ponytail. “Why don’t you dish up and I’ll…be back in a minute. I’m just going to put on something…less comfortable.” She bolted for her bedroom, berating herself for looking like a slob.

“Don’t go to any trouble,” he called, taking two plates from the cupboard. “You look fine.”

Eight minutes later she reappeared in the kitchen. Hair down and brushed, she’d put on a lacy, dark yellow blouse tucked into black trousers, along with a bit of lipstick. He looked her up and down, smiling as his gaze reached to her feet. Fuzzy pink bunny slippers peeked out from under her trouser cuffs. “I’ve been on my feet all day,” she explained. “You’ll just have to ignore them.”

“Wouldn’t be you without them,” he said, grinning, pulling out a chair for her. She took the offered seat and admired the table. Along with the flowers, he’d opened a bottle of white wine and lit two candles. He’d even put out placemats. It looked almost…romantic, she thought. They began to eat.

“This is good,” she said with a full mouth, pointing at her plate with her fork. “Perfect. I’m starving. How did you know this is exactly what I wanted?”

“You always want fish curry when you’ve had a frustrating day at work. It’s one of your comfort foods,” he responded.

“One? What are my others?” she asked, smiling, testing him.

“Coffee ice cream, those horrible little hard lemon drops, chips, of course, and white wine,” he listed. 

She snort-laughed. “You’re right with one exception,” she said. “They’re not horrible.” He nodded, then shook his head adamantly and gave her a lop-sided grin. They ate in companionable quiet for a few minutes, enjoying the food and wine, relaxing into the moment. The hovering spectre of the intimate lessons they were going to undertake later momentarily receded from their minds.

“So, tell me about your day,” he said after a while, breaking the silence. “What’s frustrating you today, Dr. Hooper? Besides me, that is.” He softened the statement with a gentle smile.

“I can’t seem to discover how Mr. Barak died,” she said. “Perfectly healthy 32 year old man. His heart just stopped. No sign of cardiovascular disease, no arteriosclerosis, toxicology showed no illicit compounds, no drugs or alcohol, not even any prescription drugs. Just dead.” She snapped her fingers. “Like that.”

“What do you know about him?” Sherlock asked.

“Omir Barak, married to Mireyana, aged 29. Two girls, twins, age six. Moved here from Persembe, Turkey almost three years ago. He worked as a translator in the embassy. Greg told me he was well regarded there, neighbors say he was a nice, quiet man, loved his kids. No enemies, no debt, no suspicious political affiliations. I don’t think it’s murder, could be accidental poisoning, but I can’t identify the substance. Any ideas?”

Sherlock pulled out his phone and launched google maps. “Hmm,” he said. “Persembe. Right on the Black Sea.”

“Does that mean anything?”

“Not yet,” he shook his head. “Maybe some pieces will connect eventually. I’ve got a tickle in my brain. That’s a good sign.”

“His wife said they had a light breakfast, tea and toast, kids had cereal, and then she went out to work in the garden. When she came back inside two hours later, he was lying on the sofa, dead. No signs of foul play. Like he’d just laid down for a nap and died.”

“Did you check for digitalis?”

“Yep. Not present. Thinking the wife made her darling hubby some foxglove tea?”

“They’re a common flower. She gardens. It’s been done before,” Sherlock said, putting down his fork and pushing his plate away.

“Not in this case,” Molly replied. “I had the same thought.” She got up, put their empty plates in the sink, and flicked on the kettle. “Tea?” She started arranging the cups and saucers on a tray.

“Sure,” Sherlock answered. “Unless you’re trying to kill me via foxglove for getting you involved in my, uh, casework.”

Molly laughed. “This time, I think it really is going to be my pleasure to help you.” She sat down again whilst they waited for the kettle to boil. “Maybe we should, uh, delineate some boundaries?” 

“I guess,” he said. “What do you mean?”

“Ground rules. I don’t want you to be…uncomfortable.”

“I already am,” he confessed, shyly, not meeting her eyes. “I’m more nervous than I thought I’d be.” There were two bright spots of pink on his cheeks.

“So am I,” she said, with an understanding smile. “But I mean, we need to find some way for us to differentiate between acceptable, learning experience uncomfortable and ‘this is so uncomfortable/possibly excruciating that I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole.’”

“Well,” he said slowly, thinking, “maybe whoever’s so affected could just, l dunno, say that?”

“Madness!” Molly replied. “People actually telling the truth? Where will it all end?” The kettle clicked off and she got up to make their tea. “Honey?”

“Yes?” he answered. “Oh, you mean… Sure. Honey. I thought you were calling me an endearment—“ He cut off suddenly, his eyes growing wide. “Oh!” He scrabbled for his phone and began googling, a smug smile growing on his lips.

“What have you found?” Molly asked, peering over his shoulder as she brought their tea to the table.

“There’s a neurotoxin called grayanotoxin found in a certain type of honey,” he explained, flashing her a Wikipedia page. “It’s produced in Turkey around the Black Sea. Persembe is in that region. The bees are taken up into the mountains to make honey from the poisonous rhododendron. It grows in great abundance by the sea there, choking out almost all other flora, so the neurotoxin in the honey is very concentrated. Mad honey, it’s called, or _deli bal_. Some people use it as a medicine or…to enhance sexual performance. If taken in excess, the honey can cause low blood pressure and irregularities in the heartbeat that can bring on fainting, seizures, and even death. Just a tiny bit is used, not like normal honey, and is usually taken boiled in milk.”

“Oh, my god,” Molly said. “Honey induced bradycardia. Slowed heart rate. That’s why his heart stopped.”

“Exactly. It’s been used for centuries,” Sherlock continued, referring back to Wikipedia, “even in war. It says here in 67 B.C. Roman soldiers invaded the Black Sea region, and those loyal to King Mithridates secretly lined the Romans’ path with chunks of toxic honeycomb. The soldiers ate them, died or were driven mad by hallucinations, the rest became stupefied, and were then easily slain. I reckon Mr. Barak got his hands on a particularly potent batch and succumbed to its effects. Poisoning, just as you suspected, Molly. You should call Gordon.”

“You mean Greg? Greg Lestrade?”

He stifled a grin. “Yes. Him. Might be murder, might be accidental. He should bring in Mrs. Barak for questioning. And that honey should be removed from the premises and tested.”

Molly was already on her phone, so Sherlock finished his tea, got up and wandered out to the living room, trying to assuage his nervousness over the looming, kissing portion of the evening in front of him. He moved around the room, fiddling with her odd collection knick-knacks, lingering over a taxidermy mouse on a skateboard displayed next to the skull of a bobcat. The mouse was cleverly done. He smiled fondly at her unusual tastes. There was something fascinating, intriguing even, about her macabre delight in death. He considered how her attraction to life’s darkness could co-exist with her gentle, optimistic love of life, and how closely her outlook aligned with his.

His musings were interrupted as Molly came into the room. “Lestrade sends his thanks,” she informed him, starting to inexplicably stack a few books on the floor. “He’ll keep us informed. Come over here, Sherlock,” she ordered, indicating a spot by the books. He complied. She stepped onto the books, measuring her height against his. “Not quite,” she said, stepping down and looking through the bookshelves. “It’s going to have to be be Dr. Davidson,” she added with a laugh, pulling out a large, thick tome: “ _The Complete Atlas of Human Anatomy_.” She put the huge book on the ground near his feet and restacked the others on top of it. Climbing up, she steadied herself with a hand on his shoulder, pushing her hair out of her face with her other hand. She bounced up and down a few times, testing the books for stability. “This should work.” 

“What are you doing, Molly?” he asked.

“I’m going to kiss you, Sherlock. Is that all right?”

“Oh,” he said. “We’re…doing it now? Yes, yes, that’s okay. Should I…do anything?” 

“Maybe you could put your hands on my hips so I don’t fall. That’s good. Like that. We’ll start easy,” she assured him, rocking her hips slightly to settle in and to give him time to adjust. “Now, pretend you’re the passenger on a motorbike. Just hang on and don’t try to steer. Okay?” She looked him in the eye carefully. She didn’t want to mention it, but the butterflies in her stomach were flapping around so hard she was surprised he couldn’t hear them. 

“Right,” he said, nodding sharply, accepting her instruction like a soldier. He cleared his throat, more nervous than ever, unconsciously wiggling his hips and widening his stance an extra step for balance. ‘ _Into battle_ ’ flashed through his mind.

Leaning forward slightly, Molly slowly slid her arms around his neck, pressing her body against his, approaching him calmly until their lips were millimeters apart. “Here’s a sweet one,” she whispered to him, closing the distance between them until their lips met. His were trembling, she noticed. She turned her head slightly, pushing her soft, closed mouth languidly against his for a few moments. Pulling her head back, she looked at him. “Okay?” she asked. He swallowed and nodded. She leaned in again, running her hand lightly over the nape of his neck, continuing to kiss him gently until she felt his body start to relax. Then she nipped his plush lower lip and ran her tongue over it, pushing a little into his mouth. He parted his lips for her, allowing her searching tongue to explore the inside of his mouth and swirl against his for a long, blissful time. 

Molly thought he tasted wonderful, his scent wafting around her, mingling with the faint warm spice from the curry, bathing her in a heady essence. His hands on her hips were firm and steady, giving her a feeling of safety and strength, and his lips were warm and incredibly soft. _Luscious_ , she thought.

“Mmm,” she hummed, immersed in the moment, pressing against him more fully. Finally, needing to breathe, she reluctantly pulled away. “How was that, Sherlock?” she managed, breathing a little fast, her heart fluttering from her awakening desire.

He slowly opened his eyes, not remembering when he’d shut them. “That was…very interesting,” he ventured. “The…pressure was less than I expected, but still…enticing. You tasted like…” he analyzed carefully, “…curry, sweet grapes, and honey. With undertones of citrus from your perfume. I still don’t get the tongue thing.”

“Really, Sherlock?” she said, dryly. “That’s what you got from that?” 

“What did you get?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“Not that,” she murmured with a sly smile. She rolled her shoulders, cracked her knuckles, and readjusted her stance, challenged to do better. “Let’s try again, and stop thinking. Stop analyzing everything. Just let it…flow. It’s not a sword fight, you can relax your tongue. It’s soft, sometimes urgent, and, well, smushy. And let’s lose this.” She put her hands on his chest, slid them up to his shoulders, pushing his suit coat off. It crumpled onto the floor behind him, and he bent slightly, starting to pick it up. “Leave it,” Molly commanded.

“But…it’ll get wrink—“ he began, but was jerked upright by his collar and cut off when she crushed her lips against his. He regained his balance by roughly grabbing her hips and found himself engaged in the most passionate kiss of his life. Her mouth, greedy for the taste of him, sought his needfully, and Sherlock soon discovered he was kissing her back, his jaw working as it was his turn to explore the sweetness of her mouth with his tongue. 

Both her hands were entwined in his hair, pulling his silky locks hard enough to stimulate, but not enough to distract from their main concern. Her hand wandered through his curls. She ran the back of her forefinger delicately along the sensitive edge of his ear, causing him to sigh with satisfaction and adjust his grip more firmly on her hips. After a few moments, his hands began to slide around her waist and up her back. She pushed against him eagerly, deepening the kiss, a slight moan escaping her lips. He matched her urgency, wrapping his arms around her and clutching the back of her blouse in his hands. She gently bit his lower lip, sucking it into her mouth, which elicited a small, heated groan from him. They continued to kiss, lost in the sensation of each other, whilst long minutes passed. Finally, needing air, they broke apart with an audible pop, gasping for breath. Sherlock let go of her blouse and returned his hands to her hips, helping her balance.

“Well,” Molly said, smoothing her hair and trying to regain her composure. “That had promise.”

“Yes,” he managed. “That was definitely…different than the first one.”

“Sherlock, you’ve got a death grip on my hips,” she observed.

“Oh. Oh, yes,” he said, releasing her.

With his assisting hand, she stepped off the stack of books and cleared her throat, not feeling perfectly steady just yet. “We should…take a little break,” she said, flushed and trying to act normal. “Would you…like a brandy?”

“God, yes!” he said, with relief. He felt odd and unbalanced, like he’d been spun around too many times. It wasn’t unpleasant, he noted, being slightly dizzy. In fact, it felt kind of nice. He ran his tongue over his lips, tasting her again as a pleasant warmth thrummed through his blood. Maybe there was something to this, he allowed. Even the tongue thing had started to make sense. He picked up his suit coat and tossed it over the back of an armchair.

Molly fixed them both a glass. “Let’s sit for a minute.” They sat next to each other on the sofa and sipped their drinks. “How are you doing?” she asked, rubbing his knee, regarding him carefully. He seemed to be lost in thought.

“Fine!” he blurted out, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat. “Fine. I’m absolutely fine. It was very…smushy, but right this second I’m just trying to remember what neurotransmitters are released during…kissing.”

She sighed. “Dopamine, serotonin, and oxytocin,” she supplied. “They activate the pleasure center of the brain, the nucleus accumbens, triggering euphoria, feelings of love and attachment, as well as cravings and desire. They also reduce stress.”

A certain clipped, depressed quality in her tone cut through his thoughts. He turned his head to look at her. “Are you mad at me?” he asked, confused.

Molly took a deep breath. “No, Sherlock. I’m a little…disappointed, perhaps, but that’s due to my own unrealistic expectations. You were doing great, during. Really great, actually. But you snapped back into your head the minute we stopped. I forgot how difficult it is to get you out of your head.”

“I don’t know any other way to be,” he said, softly.

“I know,” she responded, finishing her brandy. “It’s okay. Did you know there’s over a million nerve endings in your lips? The brain allocates a disproportional amount of space to processing what happens with our mouths. Taste and smell go together so closely. It’s adaptive not only because of food, you know, to check if you’re eating something bad, but also because of genetics and our immune systems. When people kiss, they’re also sharing various smells and pheromones, chemicals that give us lots of information about our potential mate.”

“Right,” he said. “I remember reading something about the…major histocompatibility complex, which assists in the selection of a genetically appropriate sexual partner.”

“Exactly,” Molly confirmed. “There’s a lot more going on chemically and biologically than we’re aware of rationally, or even what we understand scientifically. But, and this is important, Sherlock, there’s another something beyond all the chemical interactions and firing synapses. There’s the simple, direct, sensual experience of flesh meeting flesh, of connection, intimacy, vulnerability and sharing. Of want, desire and raw need that arises from the gut. If you reduce a kiss to mere molecules and instinctual responses, you’re removing the mystery, the…romance from the entire occasion. It’s like eating food without salt. It’s bland, boring.”

“Right,” he said again, slowly, trying to absorb what she was saying and connect that information to the kiss they just shared.

“Shall we try again?” she suggested. He nodded. “Okay, your turn,” she said. “You kiss me now.” She turned towards him, pulling her legs up and tucking them under her. Sherlock drained his glass, adjusted his position on the sofa, looked deeply into her eyes, and slowly began to lean in. Stopping a few centimeters from her mouth, he slid his long fingers delicately, sensually, along her jaw, palming her cheek and gently turning her face to his. Molly’s eyes widened. “Oh, my,” she murmured, nearly breathless at his flawless technique. He completed his approach, his lips brushing lightly against hers.

“ _Hic_ ,” Molly said. Sherlock froze, then pulled back a little. “ _Hic_ ,” Molly said, again. 

He sat up and observed her for a few moments. “Are you okay?”

“Sorry, Sher… _hic_...lock, I have the hiccups,” she complained, her body jerking a little with each one. “It must… _hic_ …have been the brandy. Shit! _Hic!_ ”

“Try holding your breath,” he suggested. She drew a deep breath and held it. Her cheeks got very round, her eyes got very big, and she held it until she was red in the face. Sherlock arched an eyebrow at her, watching her carefully, as if she were a bomb. Finally, she let go with a explosive exhale. 

“ _Hic_ ,” Molly said, patting her chest and shaking her head, aggravated. “Paper bag…in… _hic_ ,” she managed, waggling her hand towards the kitchen.

Sherlock got up and ran, banging around trying to locate a paper bag. He grabbed a glass, filled it with water, and brought the plastic takeaway bag out to her. “Will this do?” She nodded and started breathing into the bag, still hiccuping. After a few minutes watching her breathe deeply into the plastic bag and growing pale, he thought she might faint from lack of oxygen, so he removed it from her hands and gave her the glass of water. 

Molly took a few sips. “ _Hic!_ What the fu… _hic_ ,” she snarled, pressing on her stomach.

“Don’t panic, Molly,” he instructed. An insistent voice in his brain started shouting at him because she was in distress. He pulled out his phone and quickly started googling. 

“ _Hic_ …” Molly said. “This _hic_ …sucks! Stop!” 

Sherlock rushed back into the kitchen, rummaged around, and came back in a few minutes with an armful of remedies. “Bite on this lemon wedge,” he ordered, standing in front of her. She bit and made a face, shuddering, but kept it in her mouth. 

“ _Hic_ ,” she burbled around the hunk of lemon. She removed it, chucked it on the table, crossed her arms and glared at him. Sherlock gave her a large spoonful of small, white granules. “What’s this?” she asked, suspiciously. “Rat… _hic_ …poison?” 

“Sugar,” he answered. “There’s supposed to be something about the granules that soothes the spasm in the diaphragm.” She swallowed it, gagged, and started washing it down with several large gulps of water. “Little sips!” he yelled. She gave him the finger and drank the rest of the water. 

“ _Hic!_ ” she said, stomping her foot in irritation. 

He popped an ice cube into her mouth. “Suck on this.” 

She sucked for a little bit, rolling the freezing cube around her mouth. “ _Hic!_ ” she said, sucking it into her windpipe and nearly choking. She spit the ice into her hand and threw it at him. It splatted against his chest and fell to the floor. 

He sat down next to her. “Molly, let’s fuck. Right now,” he said, eagerly.

She looked at him in horror. “Wha— _hic_ …the hell are you talking about?” 

“I was trying to scare you,” he said, sheepishly. “Did it work?” 

“ _Hic_ ,” Molly said. “Apparently not,” she growled. “ _Hic!_ Ow,” she grumbled, rubbing her sternum. “This hurts.” 

“Open your mouth,” he said, referring to his google page. 

“What for?” 

“I’m going to pull on your tongue,” he explained. 

“No, you’re… _hic_ …not,” she declared, standing up and beginning to pace, both hands squeezing her tummy. “ _Hic!_ What stupid shit are you reading, anyway?” 

“Got any smelling salts? Ammonia?” 

“Fuck… _hic_ …off, Sherlock,” she snapped, trying to hold her breath again and failing. “They’ll go away if you… _hic_ …just stop helping!” 

“No,” he said, ignoring her, reading his google page, the insistent voice in his brain commanding him to HELP HER drowning out what she was saying. “Let’s see... Aha!” He got up, came around behind her, standing close, and wrapped his arms around her stomach. 

“What are you doing?” she demanded, bewildered. 

“Heimlich manoeuvre!” he answered. Bending backwards, he lifted her off the floor and began to energetically bounce her up and down. 

Molly, shocked, thrashed her legs and tried to pry his arms off her ribs, but she was being jostled up and down with such vigor all she could do was hang on. One of her bunny slippers flew off, sailed through the air, and landed on the sofa. “Sher… _hic_ …st…st…stop! _Hic!_ Stop it!” she screamed, flailing. 

“Just…a…couple…more…times...” he grunted, bouncing her harder. 

She kicked him hard, high up on his inner thigh, with her bare heel. With a yelp, he instantly let go of her and she landed on the floor, falling onto her stomach, dizzy and disorientated. “What the fuck… _hic_ …are you doing?” she gasped. 

“Christ!” Sherlock yelled, bent over and holding his groin. “Augh! You got me right in the…oh, god!” He dropped to the floor and started rolling around in agony. 

“You don’t use the… _hic_ …Heimlich manoeuvre on hiccups!” she shouted, flipping onto her back so she could breathe better. “You could have broken my ribs! And that… _hic_ …isn’t how you do it anyway!” 

Sherlock wasn’t paying attention. He could only concentrate on the excruciating pain shooting through his testicles. He groaned, long and deep, rolled onto his side and, panting, let his head drop onto the floor, his eyes glazing over. “Jesus, Molly,” he gasped. “You’ve castrated me.” 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” she responded, trying to catch her breath. “But… _hic_ …you wouldn’t put me down. And I haven’t castrated you. That… _hic_ …takes knives. I barely touched you.” 

He snorted defiantly and grunted loudly. They lay, outstretched on the floor, breathing heavily for a good five minutes, the silence occasionally punctuated by Molly’s hiccups or Sherlock’s moans. Finally, he spoke. “I think I’ve gotten out of my head now,” he said, sarcastically. 

“Well,” she retorted, “now we… _hic_ …know what it takes.” 

“God, this hurts,” he muttered. “Has anyone ever told you, Molly, that you get rather…aggressive at times?” 

“It only happens… _hic_ …around you,” she fired back. She whimpered and rubbed her side. “I think my ribs are bruised,” she complained. 

“I barely touched you,” he mimicked. Another silence ensued. Eventually, he rolled over and carefully started getting to his feet. He gave her a hand up, and they stood there, looking at each other uncomfortably. 

“Gosh, that was fun,” he lied. “I learned so much.” Molly hiccuped and hung her head, feeling suddenly remorseful. “Maybe I should go,” he said, wincing. 

She nodded. “That’s… _hic_ …probably best. We can try again tomorrow.” 

“Two days,” he corrected, breathless. “Need…time to recover.” 

Molly reached up and kissed him on the cheek. “Okay,” she agreed. “Two days. I’m sorry I… _hic_ …injured you. You should go home and put some ice on that.” 

He nodded, limped over to his coat, waved goodbye, and waddled out of her flat. Molly stamped her foot and burst into frustrated tears. 

*****


	3. Chapter 3

—The next morning, 7:30 a.m., a series of text messages—

 

_Did your hiccups go away? SH_

_Yes. They ran away. Out of fear. Like you. Molly. xo_

_Very funny. More like self preservation. SH_

_How are your man parts? Molly. xo_

_Sore. Still icing. You’re lethal. You should come with a warning sign. SH_

_Pot? Kettle. I’m sorry. You scared me. Molly. xo_

_Sorry I didn’t listen. How are your ribs? SH_

_A little sore. Tomorrow night still good? Molly. xo_

_Yes. SH_

_Sorry again. Molly xo_

_Me, too. 7 p.m? SH_

_Perfect. Molly. xo_

***

Shortly after ten a.m., John Watson bounded up the steps to 221B and flung open the door, only to find Sherlock in his pajamas and robe, manspreading in his chair. His eyes were closed, his head stretched back, and he had an ice pack carefully situated on his groin. A cup of tea sat cooling by his elbow along with an open package of biscuits.

“What happened to you?” John asked, detouring into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. “Is the kettle still hot?” He flicked it on again.

“Just a little skirmish,” Sherlock replied, evenly, raising his head to look at his friend. 

“Russian mafia? Drug kingpins? Mycroft?” The kettle clicked off almost immediately.

“Nothing so grand,” the detective responded, sighing deeply and closing his eyes again.

“Need me to have a look?” John offered, pouring his cuppa. “I am a medical professional.”

“I’ll be fine, thanks.”

“Wouldn’t take very long,” John said. “It’s a very _small_ concern.” He came into the living room with his tea, settled into his chair, and grinned.

Sherlock opened an eye and glowered. “Funny, John. Everyone’s a comedian today,” he grumbled to himself.

“No, seriously, how did it happen?” John pressed.

“I was attacked by a swarm of hostile Girl Guides.”

“Why won’t you tell me?”

“Why do you want to know?” Sherlock spit out, irritated. “It was an accident. Sort of.”

“Fine. Don’t tell me.” 

Sherlock waved his hand in the air. “I see Mary has kicked you out for the day. The infant must be fussing.”

“Yep. Rosie has the sniffles and the tiniest of coughs, and every time she sneezes Mary freaks out and thinks we should take her to A&E. We thought I might be safer over here. I thought maybe you and I could go do something interesting, but I see you’re in no condition to do anything except wallow in self pity.” He leaned forward and grabbed a biscuit.

Sherlock looked hurt. “Really, John, I’m laying here close to death, and you’re making fun?”

“Hang on,” John said, munching his ginger nut and thinking. “Weren’t you at Molly’s last night?” Sherlock refused to respond, merely closing his eyes again in a long-suffering posture. “You were!” John continued. He burst out laughing. “You told me you were going over there for dinner. Molly did that to you? What, did you try to kiss her or something?”

“Nothing of the sort,” Sherlock said, starting to sulk, hating John’s improved ability to make deductions. 

“Something must have happened,” John prodded. “You tried to kiss her, didn’t you? That’s it, isn’t it? You tried to kiss her, so she slapped you, and you kept trying, so finally she had to kick you where it counts to get you to stop.” He smiled at the vision in his head.

Sherlock looked at him with horror. “John, you need to examine this disturbing tendency you have to add unnecessary colour to my adventures.”

“Well, then? Enlighten me. You must have done something, Sherlock. Nobody gets kicked in the balls for nothing.”

“Really, John,” Sherlock snorted. “I’m sure there have been many instances in the past when some poor man, completely minding his own business, was inappro—“

“—What happened?” John roared. “Did you kiss her?”

Sherlock squirmed in discomfort, feeling pressured. “If…if you really must know,” he blurted out, “she kissed me first.” He winced as soon as the words left his mouth.

John looked doubtful. “So, you’re saying she kissed you and then she kicked you?”

“No, the kick happened…later,” he explained with a dismissive flick of his wrist. He really didn’t want to revisit the whole disastrous hiccups thing.

John froze as a thought occurred to him. “Wait a minute. Are you and Molly…” He waggled his fingers.

“No, we’re not…” Sherlock said, snidely imitating John’s gesture. “She’s helping me with a case.”

“What kind of a case involves kissing?”

“Christ, I shouldn’t have said anything.” Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his chair and removed the ice pack, dropping it onto the floor.

“Sherlock,” John said, turning serious. “What kind of a case involves kissing? Look, I know you. You can be rude and overbearing. I’ve seen you before, manipulate her into doing things for you. No, don’t deny it,” he bit out when Sherlock opened his mouth for a rebuttal. “I just want to be sure you’re not taking advantage of her again,” John continued, “or hurting her for one of your stupid reasons.”

“My reasons are not stupid!” Sherlock snapped. “Telling you, now that was stupid,” he added, muttering to himself.

“At least she can take care of herself,” John said, approvingly. He nodded towards the injury. “Does it hurt much?”

“Yes.”

“Are you taking Paracetamol?”

“Yes.”

“Is what you’re doing with Molly a good idea?”

“Just say what you want to say,” Sherlock said, sighing.

“Suppose you and Molly are engaged in some kind of…behavior. It’s none of my business, I guess, but I have reservations about it, knowing you, and it wouldn’t be right for me not to say anything. What kind of commitment are you making towards her?”

“Commitment? What are you talking about? We’re not getting married, if that’s what you mean. This is temporary. For a case,” Sherlock explained.

“I’m just having flashbacks to a certain Janine situation,” John said. “You remember, I’m sure, when you used an innocent woman for your own deceitful purposes?”

“This is nothing like that,” Sherlock argued. “And Janine wasn’t so innocent.”

“Yes, but Molly is,” John snapped. Sherlock looked down and didn’t answer. “Okay,” John continued, “I assume you know what you’re doing, although I don’t know why I should, with your track record. But I just want to encourage you to think carefully about this. She’s all alone in the world with no one to look after her, and she’s a gentle, trusting soul—“

“—With a powerful kick,” Sherlock interjected.

“The point is, she’s vulnerable, and she…cares for you,” John said, firmly.

“I know that,” Sherlock agreed, softly. 

“She cares for you in ways you’re not capable of understanding or reciprocating. So, be mindful, Sherlock. If you have no notion of commitment, you’ll be leading her on. Don’t do that.”

“Of course not,” Sherlock answered, beginning to wonder if John could be right. “I’m not a beast.”

“Maybe reconsider the whole thing. For you, it’s just a case, but you’re doing…something with someone who has feelings for you. Think about that.”

Sherlock looked at John steadily and nodded. “I will,” he promised.

“Good,” John said, with a nod, reaching for the remote. “Telly? There’s Wales versus Ireland.”

“If we must,” Sherlock agreed, settling into his chair and picking up his mug of tea.

***

“You’re doing _what_?” Meena screamed, clapping her hand over her mouth. She and Molly were in Bart’s cafeteria, having lunch. They were sitting at a far table, heads together, giggling as usual. Nobody paid them any mind; everyone in the hospital knew they were as thick as thieves. They were often in the corner at lunch, laughing at god knows who or what.

Molly shushed her, sternly. “I swear to god, Meena, if you breathe one word about this to anyone, I’ll have your head on a platter. I mean it. This is not for…general consumption.”

“Sure,” Meena said, nodding her head. “I get it.” She thought for a minute, then leaned in, her curiosity aroused. “How is he?” she asked, eagerly, waggling her eyebrows.

“Well, he…he has a lot of promise,” Molly answered, thinking back to the luscious kiss they’d enjoyed before the entire evening had turned to shit. Her stomach started fluttering again. His lips had been so soft and warm and he’d been so intensely focused, almost…passionate. She hadn’t been able to get him out of her mind all night.

“So,” Meena countered, sitting back, “you’re saying he’s not a natural.”

“No,” Molly said, hotly. “I didn’t say that. First of all, he doesn’t have a lot of…experience, so you have to allow for that. He was fine when he got…warmed up a little. Secondly, he has a hard time, um, getting out of his head. You know how brilliant he is. He prefers intellectual pursuits over sensual pleasures. Plus, we were just getting started when the…the hiccups began.”

“Too bad,” Meena commiserated. “He’s not my type — I prefer them short, horny, and married, but I know you like him. He is gorgeous, though, in an aloof, posh way.”

“He’s not aloof!” Molly said. “He’s very caring. It doesn’t always…show, because sometimes he’s shy.”

Meena laughed. “Shy? Him? That arrogant bloke that wanders around, insulting people? Are you sure we’re talking about the same person?”

“Yes,” said Molly, stiffly, wondering why she’d even broached the topic. “He’s been hurt by people like you, making fun of him, so he…holds back until he can trust you. Really, it makes my blood boil how people treat him. He can be very…kind,” she finished. “Very gentle.”

Meena looked appropriately chastised, but doubtful. “I’ll take your word for it, Molls,” she said. “Even though I’ve never seen it.”

“I guess sometimes he can be kind of an arsehole,” Molly admitted.

“Most people here either hate him or are terrified of him,” Meena mused. “Sometimes both. I guess it’s because they’re afraid he’s going to come out with one of those horrible, extremely personal deductions in front of everyone. Did you know last week he announced the affair that Steve and Charlotte are having? Right at the nurses station on Five, in front of Char and three nurses? Steve tried to punch him.”

“Serves Steve right,” Molly said. She’d never liked Steve anyway. He seemed kind of…oily. She wasn’t surprised he was having an affair. Even though he was married, he’d hit on her before. “Jerk. I don’t know why his wife puts up with it.” Meena suddenly went very quiet and looked away. “Oh my god,” Molly breathed, awareness dawning. “You slept with him!”

“It was only once,” Meena said, defensively. “At the Christmas party, last year. He was lousy,” she grimaced. “Didn’t help we were both drunk. It was sweaty and floppy, then he broke down into tears and ran off to confess to his wife. Weasel. Cured me of married men, I can tell you. But enough about him. What are you going to do about your…pupil? 

“I don’t know. I need to think of something, because I have a feeling that just kissing a lot isn’t going to work. There’s something else that needs to be…uncovered. Freed. Got any ideas?”

“Ummm,” Meena hedged. “It sounds like you need to…help him discover his latent sensuality. I mean, everyone’s got a sensual kink, right? How can you not? Get him relaxed and comfortable with earthly pleasures.” She snickered.

Molly thought for a moment, trying to identify times Sherlock had shown signs of sensuality. Well, there was the way he dressed, in silk shirts and elegant suits. His love of music was another. That piece he’d composed for John and Mary’s wedding was pure romance. Snooping through his products in the bathroom at Baker Street once she’d discovered the most expensive, luxurious shampoos, shaving cream and cologne available. He also lounged beautifully, languidly, especially when he was bored. It was all there, she realized, locked up inside him. It was just when he had to expose that side of himself to another person that he got stuck.

“You could start with food,” Meena suggested. “That’s about as sensual as you can get, outside of sex. Get him to slow down, enjoy the moment, really taste and savour.”

“Right,” Molly said, nodding, a plan beginning to form in her mind. “Good idea.”

“Champagne. Spicy oysters. Creamy pasta. And then massage,” Meena continued. “With scented oils. Candles. Soft music, dim lighting. Slow dancing,” she giggled. “Whipped cream.”

Molly blushed. She arranged the empty plates on her tray, and stood up, getting ready to leave. “Yes, thank you,” she said. “I get the picture.”

“Wait a minute, Molly,” Meena said, putting a hand on her arm. “How far are you going to take this?”

“What?”

“He asked you to teach him how to kiss, right? So, suppose it goes farther than that, in the, you know, heat of the moment? Where’s the line? What will you do?”

Molly sat down. She hadn’t thought of that. She’d only been focused on the kissing part. “I…I don’t know,” she faltered. 

“It’s just that I know how you feel about him,” Meena continued. “Suppose you do manage to awaken his sensuality, his libido, and he wants…more? I mean, what man doesn’t? How far are you willing to go?”

“Oh, my god,” Molly said, stunned. “Of course I would love to…be with him, but not if it’s going to ruin our friendship. And not like that, in the heat of a moment. I want…all of him, you know? Not just his body, even though it’s a…rather stunning body. I want his heart, too. I want him to care about me the way I do about him.”

“You want him to love you,” Meena offered, softly.

Molly felt her stomach flip over. She took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing thoughts. She looked at her hands twisting together in her lap. “I don’t go around casually sleeping with people. Not since before Tom, anyway. It has to feel…special. Plus, it’s…him. He’s different than other men. Yes, you’re right, Meena,” she admitted, brokenly. “I want him to love me. And I’m not sure he’s capable of that. Or even thinks of me that way.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Meena said, as Molly fought back tears. “I didn’t realize how much…I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Molly managed, heaving a sigh. “It’s…good you brought it up. I guess I have some thinking to do. So I can be prepared.”

“Go slow,” Meena suggested. “Do what’s right for you. Don’t let him pressure you, and don’t put his needs ahead of yours like you usually do. That’s a sure way to heartbreak.”

Molly nodded, wiped her eyes, gave Meena a wan smile, and got up to put her tray in the rack.

*****


	4. Chapter 4

—The next day, 9:00 a.m., a series of text messages—

 

_Can’t do tonight. Something came up. SH_

_No it hasn’t. 7 pm. Molly. xo_

_I have a Thing. SH_

_No you don’t. There’s no Thing. Molly. xo_

_Yes there is. SH_

_What Thing? Molly. xo_

_Can’t tell you. Top secret. SH_

_Stop lying. My flat. 7 pm. Molly. xo_

_I’m serious. I have a Thing. SH_

_So am I. There’s no Thing. You’re just scared. Molly. xo_

_No I’m not. SH_

_I have an idea. We’ll do something different. No kissing. 7 pm. Molly. xo_

_Okay. Only if you promise not to castrate me again. SH_

_I’ll put the knives away. Molly. xo_

_Ha ha. Hilarious. Should I bring dinner? SH_

_I’m cooking. Molly. xo_

_See you at 7. SH_

 

***

Promptly at seven there was a knock on Molly’s door. She opened it to find Sherlock standing there, his hands clasped together behind his back. He drew himself up to his full height and looked down at her warily, not budging. Stepping aside, she gestured for him to enter. “Chicken?” she asked, mildly, with a slight smile. He slowly stepped over the threshold and inched into the room, glancing around carefully. “What are you looking for, Sherlock?”

“Ninja assassins,” he replied, shrugging out of his coat and hanging it up. He bent over and casually kissed her cheek in greeting. “I reckon it’s the only way a mere slip of a woman like you could have laid me out.”

“Oh, you’re safe. I’ve given them the night off,” she said, laughing. “Poor Sherlock, bested by a tiny female. Come into the kitchen, I’ve something on ice for you. Something to cool your sore...ego.”

He snorted, following her, and she handed him a bottle of champagne to open. He popped the cork and poured them two glasses whilst she set a plate of oysters on the granite countertop near him. They smelled delicious, dressed with a pungent chili oil. Sherlock slurped one down. “Wow!” he said, shaking his head and licking his lips. “These have got a kick.” He cooled the heat with a sip of icy champagne, enjoying the tickly bubbles bursting in his mouth.

“Better them than me, don’t you think?” Molly said with a giggle, reaching for one herself. 

He chuckled and took another, tossing it back as he looked around the flat. She’d dimmed the lights, he noticed, lit a few candles, and there was soft jazz playing in the background. A cozy fire crackled in the grate and a delicious aroma from their dinner wafted around him. The table was set with a cloth, crystal, and china, as well as a few red roses in a vase, glowing in the candlelight. 

He watched her whilst she ate another oyster, letting it slowly slide down her throat. She was wearing a silky, lavender colored dress with a flattering bateau neckline which highlighted her delicate collar bones, and pink suede kitten heels. Her long hair was swept up on the sides and secured with two enameled butterfly combs that fluttered slightly when she moved her head. Sparkly earrings made from a cascade of tiny purple gemstones dangled along her neck, accentuating the enticing line of her jaw. She looked soft and lovely. Sherlock unconsciously took a step closer to her, and she smiled up at him, shyly. “You are beautiful tonight, Molly,” he said in a low voice.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” she murmured. “Are you hungry? Shall we eat?”

“Starving,” he said, his eyes devouring her. “I haven’t eaten all day.” Settling themselves at the table, she took his plate and served him a luscious pile of linguini, mushrooms and asparagus in a lemon cream sauce, topped with herb grilled prawns and a generous scattering of tangy Parmesan cheese. Before she could even dish a plate for herself, he’d picked up his fork and wolfed down three large mouthfuls. 

“Stop,” she said. He paused, the fourth bite halfway to his lips. “Put your fork down, Sherlock.”

“Why?” he asked. “I’m hungry.”

“We’re trying something different tonight,” she reminded him. “You’re going to slow down, take small bites, and really taste this gorgeous meal I’ve prepared for you. Savour every molecule.”

He shoveled another forkful into his mouth. “I am enjoying it,” he countered. “It’s good.”

“You can’t enjoy it properly when you’re hoovering it up like a barnyard animal,” she said, getting exasperated. “Put your fork down.”

He dropped his fork onto his plate with an annoyed grunt. She got up, rummaged through a drawer and came over to stand behind him.

“What are you doing?” he asked, unable to see what she held in her fingers.

“Put your hands behind the chair,” she instructed. “Wrists together.”

“What for?”

“Just do it, Sherlock.” Grumbling, he did as she requested. She slipped a thick elastic over his hands, releasing it so it snapped, rather sharply, against his wrists. It wasn’t restraining him in any meaningful way, it was just there to focus him, to make him concentrate.

“Ow,” he complained at the minuscule affront to his skin. “How am I supposed to eat like this?”

Molly returned to her seat, scootching her chair closer to him until their knees touched. “I’m going to feed you,” she explained. “You’re going to eat slowly, noticing all the tastes and textures in your mouth. You’re going to swallow, noticing how it feels when the pasta slides down your throat into your waiting stomach. You’re going to pay attention to the food – the anticipation, how it smells, how it feels on your tongue, what it’s like to chew, and how delicious, sensual and pleasurable the experience of eating is. Go slowly, Sherlock. Immerse yourself in the sensations. Got it?”

“Yes,” he agreed, reluctantly, with an aggrieved sigh.

She twirled a small amount of linguini onto his fork and raised it to his mouth. “Open wide,” she smiled playfully. “Here comes the choo-choo.” He closed his lips around the fork as she removed it, and slowly rolled the mouthful around, tasting the zingy lemon perfectly tempered by the double cream, the pleasant, toothy resistance of the pasta melding with the delicate perfume of garlic, the soft, earthy mushrooms, the bright undertones of sherry, and the green crunch of fresh asparagus. This is amazing, he realized, feeling like he’d never really experienced food before in his life. How was that possible, he wondered.

“Have a prawn,” she said, placing one gently on his tongue. “Close your eyes and eat.”

“Mmm,” he hummed, his eyes closing, chewing the hot, firm shellfish, bursting with flavour, feeling it pop against his teeth, bathing his mouth with exquisite taste and texture. She fed him another bite of pasta. He couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten anything quite so delicious. The sauce was rich and full, the interplay of herbs and spices tantalizing his tongue, the texture creamy and luscious. He swallowed, feeling a deep satisfaction as the food slid pleasantly down his throat, a contented feeling rising through his body, rushing through his veins, as intoxicating as the champagne. 

She took a few bites for herself from his plate, watching him actually enjoying the experience, deeply pleased. His face was slightly flushed, his expression sublime, nearly ecstatic. He had finally stopped thinking and was completely in the moment. He opened his eyes and looked at her warmly. “More,” he whispered. She continued to slowly feed them both, taking her time, switching the plates when they finished his portion.

A long time later, after swallowing a last, delectable mouthful he’d savoured with closed eyes, he opened them and looked around. She looked different. Everything looked different, he realized. The room seemed bathed in a sensuous glow, her beauty shining out through her warm, brown eyes as she gazed at him with unabashed adoration. The candle flickered on the table, casting fleeting shadows across her lovely face. He could smell the scent of the roses, mingling with the last, faint, delicious flavors of the meal. His blood sang. He felt an indescribable ache in his heart; he wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her sweet mouth, slowly and thoroughly, to caress her gently and hold her close. She carefully wiped his lips with her napkin. “Good?” she asked, with a knowing smile, refilling his champagne glass.

“Perfection,” he breathed, releasing his hands from the elastic and picking up his wine glass. He clinked it against hers. “Thank you, Molly. I didn’t know…” he trailed off, not able to find adequate words to describe how impactful this experience had been. Her eyes twinkled at him, as if they’d just shared a secret. He removed his suit coat and rolled up his sleeves, getting comfortable, before reaching out and covering her hand with his. They finished the champagne in amiable, sated, silence.

Once the bottle was empty, Molly got up. “C’mon, Sherlock,” she said, tugging on his hand. “Let’s work off some of this dinner.” He followed her into the other room. She turned the lights down and the music up, slipping out of her heels. Sliding her small hand into his large, warm one, she stepped close to him, and he placed his hand on her waist. They started swaying to the music, finding their rhythm, her left hand resting gently along his upper arm.

“Mmm,” Sherlock rumbled into her ear. “How long do we have to dance like this to work off that meal?”

“Oh,” she said, dreamily, moving her hand up to his shoulder, feeling his muscles flex through his silk shirt under her fingertips. “About a hundred years.”

“I hope it’s closer to two hundred,” he confessed. “Twirl.” He spun her out, and she returned almost gracefully, laughing lightly, feeling delightfully dizzy because of the champagne. “Dipping you!” he said, smiling, bending her back, his hand firmly around her waist, supporting her as she leaned.

“Oo!” she giggled happily, raising her leg and pointing her toe, her eyes sparkling. Once righted, she found herself closer to him than ever, his thigh now brushing between hers. She wound her hand along the slope of his shoulder, sliding her fingers under his collar, stroking the tender skin at the nape of his neck. 

Sherlock moved her other hand up to his neck, freeing both his hands to settle on her lower back as they continued to move together with the music, becoming more relaxed and comfortable with each other whilst the long, lovely, minutes ticked by. He could smell the perfume rising from her hair, a bewitching concoction of jasmine and frankincense. She rested her cheek on his chest, feeling his heart beating, her arms around his shoulders, her fingers twisting in his hair. Sherlock pressed his lips against her temple, closing his eyes, in absolute heaven as they moved as one, drifting together in her darkened flat. _Three hundred years_ , he thought.

Eventually they slowed, until they were barely moving at all, just their hips swaying, wound in each other’s arms. Molly pulled away slightly, both her hands on his chest. “Would you like some pudding?” she whispered.

“Mmhmm,” he breathed. “Can we eat it whilst we dance?”

“We can try,” she said, reluctantly pulling herself away and going into the kitchen. She returned to his arms with a plate. “Tiramisu,” she purred. “With creme anglaise.” She lifted the fork to his lips, which he accepted, moaning with pleasure as the sweet cake and cream filled his mouth.

“I’m going to get as fat as Mycroft,” he complained, caressing her back as they moved together again. “And then I won’t be able to hold you this closely.”

“We’ll just have to keep dancing,” she said, feeding them both another few bites. He took the plate from her, putting it on the bookshelves. He smiled at her, his warm, blue eyes filling with tenderness, wanting again to kiss her. She had a bit of cream on her lower lip. Unable to resist the temptation, he leaned down and licked it off. “I thought we agreed, no kissing,” she protested gently, her eyes widening.

“That wasn’t a kiss,” he murmured. “That was a lick. This is a kiss.” He bent his head towards her, capturing her mouth with a deep, needful urgency, mingling his tongue with hers.

Molly moaned and pressed herself against him, opening to his desire. He slid his hand along her jaw, brushing his thumb over her cheek, plundering the sweetness of her mouth. His other hand moved around to her front, cupping her breast, gently stroking the sensitive peak with his long fingers. She arched into his hand, straining against him, feeling her heart melting at his touch. “Oh, god, Sherlock,” she gasped into his mouth, wanting him with her entire being, her body flooding with need. 

Then, unbidden and certainly unwanted, Meena’s questions from the day before came to her, echoing in her mind. _Suppose he wants more? What will you do? Where’s the line?_ It was like a bucket of cold water. She broke away from Sherlock’s lips, hesitating, not wanting to look at him, unwilling to have this precious moment end.

He stopped immediately, releasing her. “You’re right,” he said, not even having to hear her speak. He sighed, tilting her chin up with his fingers so she had to look him in the eye. 

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, or don’t want to…continue,” she said, pressing her hand between her breasts, against her aching heart. “I do. It’s just…I don’t think I could take it. What would happen…after,” she finished miserably.

“I guess we didn’t cover all the ground rules, did we?” he smiled, sadly. He pressed his lips against her forehead, filled with remorse, berating himself for fucking it up, for hurting her yet again. He nodded, not knowing what else to say, and walked away from her. Fetching his suit coat from the kitchen, he grabbed his Belstaff, and quietly let himself out into the cold night.

***

—The next morning, 8:00 a.m., a series of text messages—

 

_Thank you for last night. SH_

_It was delicious. So were you. SH_

_I got carried away. SH_

_I shouldn’t have kissed you. I broke our agreement. SH_

_I’m sorry. SH_

_Truly. SH_

_Are you there? SH_

_Are you okay? SH_

_Will you forgive me? SH_

_Please, Molly. SH_

_Talk to me. SH_

_Molly? SH_

*****


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock put the phone down on his bedside table and rubbed his brow, feeling rather confused, a trifle irritated, and more than a little guilty. _What the hell was going on?_ Last night had been so…enjoyable, but then everything had gone to hell. Again. He was beginning to think fate was taking a devilish hand in his life, except he didn’t believe in fate. “I will not be fortune’s fool,” he muttered. “I am no Romeo.” Last night, he told himself, was exactly why he didn’t get involved with romantic entanglements. They were distracting, upsetting, and unnecessary.

Yet he couldn’t stop thinking about their evening together, about her. The fact that Molly wouldn’t return his texts bothered him more than he liked. He didn’t want these disturbing feelings rumbling around his body, they threw him off, undermining his ability to think straight. He groaned and fell back into bed, curling into his pillow. Throwing the sheet over his head to create a cocoon, blocking out the world and its distractions, he started going over their “casework” in his mind.

It all seemed like a blur to him. Everything blended together into a kaleidoscope of swirling impressions - taste, smell, and touch. The soft rustle of Molly’s dress as she fed him, her provocative restraint on his wrists enhancing his enjoyment of the meal. He recalled the flavour of her perfume rising in his mouth as they danced, her deep brown eyes smiling shyly at him, the silky feel of her long hair under his fingers, the warm pressure of her palm on his neck, the pleasure of her mouth on his. At last he understood the tongue thing.

She’d been so beautiful, dressed up, soft, lovely, and desirable, warm and compliant in his arms. The dancing had been exquisite, just the two of them, moving together languidly, deliciously, in the dark, wrapped up in each other. It had all felt so… _right_.

He shouldn’t have kissed her, he knew that, but something, he didn’t know what, had risen up inside him and he was compelled to taste her mouth. He’d wanted more, he had to admit it, and this morning he wanted to slap himself for that wanting. Last night he’d seemed irresistibly drawn to her in some way he didn’t understand, almost as if he wasn’t in control of his own thoughts and emotions. He snorted. What a ridiculous notion!

He started thinking about John’s warning to him. Was he leading her on? Taking advantage of her feelings for him? He didn’t think so, but then why was she not answering his texts? The more he thought, the more confused he became. Unaccustomed to this level of introspection, especially because it involved considering another person’s feelings, he didn’t know what to think. He didn’t like being confused. He growled and punched his pillow.

What had she meant when she said she couldn’t take what would happen…after? After what? Hadn’t he been clear the whole thing was for a case? What was she expecting, anyway? It’s not like he’d ever expressed the slightest amount of intimate affection for her. And everyone knew how he felt about relationships. Part of him wondered if that had been her intention all along in agreeing to the casework. To pull him into an amorous entanglement. He shuddered. If she thought a bit of nice food, some dancing and a couple of kisses would alter his resolve, she had another think coming. 

Maybe he shouldn’t have gone to her in the first place, and that was where he might allow…an error. He knew she’d say yes and so, in a way, he had pushed her into it. He tried not to think about his original intention which, if he was being honest, did include a tiny, very small, almost imperceptible, curiosity as to how she would feel in his arms, what her lips would taste like, how her body would feel pressed close to his. Just as a secondary concern, of course. The primary thing had been preparing for the case. 

Damnably, now he knew how agreeable it was to hold and kiss her, how satisfying, how comforting. It had felt like coming home. He’d drifted through last night as if in a dream, like a spell had been cast on him, falling into his awakening desire all too readily. This morning, that understanding made him question what was going on.

He sighed, not able to shake the feeling that something odd had happened last night. It had been…too pleasurable, he suddenly realized, his suspicion rising. He’d kissed her. Voluntarily. That was not like him. He still felt off balance and slightly…woozy. He flipped onto his back under the sheet, rubbing his brow again. He noticed a headache starting to bloom between his brows, and also he felt sluggish and hungover. _What happened last night?_ he wondered. _It almost feels as if I’ve been…drugged._

He drew a breath, shocked at the notion, so he turned the disturbing thought over in his mind, considering its likelihood. It was possible, he finally decided. She could have drugged him, could have slipped something into his meal. Maybe in the oysters. Something to make the food taste more delicious, to make her appear even more desirable. Something to make him susceptible to her charms, to awaken his libido. To trap him.

No one would suspect her. She was entirely unassuming, quiet, kind, gentle. She was a doctor, she had access to drugs. Maybe it was MDMA, or Oxy. Perhaps some herb like acacia. Maybe even mad honey, now that she knew what it did. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of possibilities. And hadn’t he recently seen the volume, “ _The Chemical Properties of Herbal Remedies_ ,” in her bookshelves?

He nodded, his hypothesis growing more solid in his mind. It made sense. The rapid manifestation of euphoria, the feelings of desire and attachment rushing through his veins, normally alien to him. They weren’t natural. Clearly, some unknown compound had been introduced to his body without his knowledge or consent. That was it; he was absolutely sure. Molly Hooper had poisoned him.

He pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes to block out a sudden, horrible vision of her, approaching him with a sweet and deadly smile, offering him a beaker of thick, bubbling, glowing green liquid to drink. His stomach turned over. He felt a tightness in his throat and a hardening of his heart.

Snarling, he threw off the sheet and got out of bed. _Fine_ , he thought, _if that’s the way she wants to play this. I’m onto her now_. He made a steadfast promise to ignore her completely. He wasn’t going to call her, text her, or see her at all. He wouldn’t be played for a fool. He’d get on with his life. His uncomplicated, poison-free life.

*****


	6. Chapter 6

—Six days later, early afternoon—

John slammed the door as he entered his flat, ripped off his coat, and sank down on the sofa with a growl.

Mary, rocking their baby in her arms and cooing, looked at him quizzically.

“That bastard,” John said, not even needing to mention which bastard he was referring to. “Insufferable git. I don’t know what’s gotten into him. He’s been screaming at everyone for nearly a week. Everyone. Clients come to see him, wanting help with their problems, he calls them idiots and kicks them out. We’re riding in a taxi and he’s shouting abuse at the driver, other cars, random pedestrians. A dog once. A poor, old dog, trying to get some sunshine on the pavement, only to be yelled at by Sherlock bloody Holmes.” He groaned and heaved a sigh.

“But all that sounds perfectly normal,” Mary said, with a twinkle in her eye.

“Well, get this. He won’t eat anything, says someone’s trying to poison him. He’s pacing and roaring, throwing things, smoking like fiend. Smoking! The entire flat smells like an ashtray.” He sniffed his shirt. “I smell like an ashtray. It’s disgusting.”

Mary made sympathetic noises.

“Today was the final straw,” John continued. “When I suggested he was being a little short tempered and did he want to talk about it, he said I couldn’t possibly comprehend his difficulties because my IQ is lower than Anderson’s! That hurt.”

“What’s going on?” Mary asked, her mind snapping into problem solving mode. “Is it Moriarty?”

“He says no, Moriarty’s dead. I have no idea what fool notion’s gotten into his mind,” John said, with a disgruntled shrug. “Who can understand him? And you know how unreasonable he can be.” He crossed his arms and frowned, his thoughts swirling. “What he needs is a good murder. Maybe even a serial killer. That’ll get him sorted.”

Mary stopped rocking Rosie and nodded, thinking. “I have an idea what’s going on,” she offered. “If you’re done ranting.”

“Yes, I’m done,” he sighed, taking the baby and making silly noises at her. Rosie grabbed his nose and babbled, happily.

“Remember how I said I’d get a sitter for Friday?” Mary said. He nodded. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of Molly for a few days now, but she’s not answering her phone or texts. That’s not like her.” John’s eyes started to narrow. “So, I called Stamford. He said she hasn’t been to work in a week. Before she left, she was acting so sad he couldn’t stand it. He said he thought she was going to dissolve into a puddle of tears and melt right into the floor. He sent her home. We know Sherlock’s been acting like a beast and Molly’s upset. They’ve been ‘working together.’ What does that tell us?”

“I’m going to bloody well kill that dickhead,” John snapped. “That’s what it tells me.”

“Given what you shared with me last week about their…casework,” she added, “I deduce Sherlock has fucked up again.”

“I told him not to do this!” John said, hotly, bouncing Rosie a little too vigorously on his knee. “I told him to leave her alone!”

“Not so hard with the baby, please. And when has Sherlock ever listened to anyone? He’d rather die.”

“I can take care of that for him,” John muttered, passing Rosie back and starting to put his coat on.

“I wonder if he really…” she mused, considering possibilities. “Wait, John, wait a minute. Hear me out. Suppose Sherlock has…feelings for Molly?”

“Feelings?” John echoed, blankly. “What kind of feelings could he have?”

“Are all you men so clueless?” Mary said, exasperated. “It’s a miracle you ever hook up at all. Feelings, John. Tender regard. Affection. For Molly.”

John shook his head. “He’s not built like that, I don’t think. Not capable of it. That’s what makes his behavior with her so unconscionable. He’s obviously using her.”

“I don’t know,” Mary mused. “He’d have to be pretty stupid to ignore what’s going on right in front of him.”

“Question answered, I think,” John muttered. “The man’s a moron. I’m going over there.”

“No,” she said, firmly. “I think I should go see Sherlock, and you should go to Molly.”

“Why?”

“Because he won’t talk to you, my darling. Especially after you’ve punched him. I have a…softer idea.”

“What about Rosie?”

“I’ll take her with me,” Mary answered. “She’ll prove most useful. She’ll calm him down. Won’t you, dearheart? Yes, you will.” She bounced Rosie gently and kissed her forehead.

“What am I going to say to Molly? I don’t know how to deal with that,” he complained. “Sobbing women are not my forte.”

“You have something in common,” she pointed out. “You both hate Sherlock right now.” She smiled. “John, just be your nice, patient self. Get her to talk about it. You’ll do fine.” She pushed him out the door and began to gather her things together.

Forty minutes later, John, with trepidation, knocked carefully on Molly’s door. “Go away!” she yelled.

“Molly, it’s John,” he said, in his gentlest tone. “John Watson. Please let me in. I’d like to talk to you.”

There was a long silence. He was just about to knock again when he heard the lock opening. She stood there, not looking at him, blotchy faced, barefoot, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. Her hair was down but uncombed. She’d obviously been crying. A lot. He stepped over the threshold slowly, feeling like he was approaching a jittery, wounded deer who might bolt at any second. He looked around. Her flat was a mess – pillows everywhere, along with hundreds of crumpled tissues, the post, and some discarded clothes. A plant lay on the floor, knocked over, the pile of dirt staining the rug. The work of Toby, no doubt. A week’s worth of washing up was stacked in the sink, and a vase of dry, dead daisies graced the coffee table, their tiny petals scattered around like pale moth wings.

Molly flung herself onto the sofa, picked up the half-eaten pint of Java Chip ice cream she was working on, started crying, and stuffed another spoonful in her mouth. 

“Hey, Moll,” John began, unsure what to say. “I, uh, just wanted to stop by and see how you’re doing,” he began, as casually as he could. “Looks like things are…not so good.” Standing there, he counted nine empty pints of ice cream littered around the living room, two empty vodka bottles, and, most shockingly, an overflowing ashtray with at least 30 fag ends in it. “Where…where did all this ice cream come from?” he asked, somewhat bewildered. He’d never seen her be anything other than neat, organized, and emotional stable.

“I’m having it delivered!” she sobbed, tears streaming down her cheeks. “It’s a stupid waste of money but I need it.”

“Oh. Okay,” John said, as if this were a perfectly normal occurrence. He sat down next to her on the sofa. “Listen, Molly, I wondered—“

“I don’t want to talk about him,” she interrupted, angrily pushing at her ice cream with the back of her spoon.

He reached over and gently took the carton from her, placing it on the table. He handed her a tissue. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?” he said. “It…pains me to see you so…distressed.” He was a little surprised to hear that come out of his mouth, but he realized how much he’d grown to like and appreciate her over the years. She was helpful and kind, Mary and Rosie adored her, and to see her hurt by that bastard made him furious.

Molly shook her head and buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking. John let her cry without trying to make her stop, innately sensing it would be good for her to get it all out. Finally, she took a deep breath and sat up. “Why can’t I get over him?” she wailed, looking at him with such despair he felt his stomach drop. “I’ve tried and tried, for years, John.” She wrapped her arms around her middle and started rocking. “Sometimes I think he feels…something for me, but then…nothing happens and I figure I’m reading too much into it. I tried to move on and find someone else. I really did. Tom was a nice man. But he wasn’t…,” she trailed off, the unequal comparison between the two men making her stomach tighten.

“Sherlock,” John finished. 

She nodded, miserably. “Am I a masochist, John? He’s dismissive, condescending, self-centered, and completely irritating. But I still want him. What is wrong with me?” The tears started again.

He passed her another tissue. “Nothing is wrong with you, Molly. This is going to sound odd,” John began. “But I understand what you’re saying. I have some of the same…feelings towards him. I mean, not in exactly the same way,” he smiled. “He does get…into your blood, doesn’t he?” 

Molly nodded, sniffling. “If he was a complete arsehole all of the time it would be easier. But just when I’ve had enough, he says something sweet, or shows up with dinner, relaxed and happy, and I lose my heart all over again. Christ, I’m such a fool. Not only that, fuck his charm. Bastard.” She growled.

“I don’t know what it is about him,” he mused. “The excitement, the danger, the drama, his brilliant mind or his colossal stupidity. But it’s nearly impossible to escape his…gravitational pull, you know? Some days I want to kill him, and other days I want to hug him. He’s never boring, is he?”

She shook her head in agreement.

“When he was dead,” John continued, “I wanted him back so much. I missed him, and I was so angry at him. I almost didn’t make it through. But then I met Mary, and I found I could go on. You will too.”

“I don’t seem able to do that,” she confessed, absentmindedly ripping the tissue apart. “And I’m not sure I want to. But now I feel like I’m at a crossroads. I have to move on, since I don’t think…he really wants me.” Her face twisted up and she let out a few, deep sobs.

“I’m not sure what he wants, Molly,” John said, truthfully. “I’m not sure he knows.” Molly looked down at the tissue she’d shredded, wadded it up and threw it on the carpet. “So, what can I do, Molly? Do you want me to kill him for you? I know you’re livid.”

“I’m not!” she said, shaking her head. “I’m not mad at him.”

“What?” John wasn’t sure he believed her. “How is that possible? I would be, and I don’t have anything like your reason.”

“I’m mad at…me,” she explained, taking a deep breath. “Because I keep…trying. I knew what I was getting into. It was for a case. There wasn’t going to be any…attachment. But I never seem to learn that, John. I’m just…he’s so…,” she started sobbing again. “I’m so stupid!”

“You’re not stupid,” he said. “You just have feelings for a complete dickhead. Questionable choices, maybe, but you’re not the only person in the world like that.” He smiled kindly, trying to cheer her up.

Molly snorted and kept talking. “After he left all I could think was if I don’t get over him, the rest of my life is going to be this…hell. I can’t take it anymore! Meena warned me but I didn’t listen. I didn’t want to listen. And now I’m angry and depressed. I’m exhausted, I haven’t had any decent nutrition in a week, my mouth tastes like cigarettes and I’m never going to be happy! I’m fucking smoking cigarettes, John! My life is like…death. Nobody loves me.”

“Oh, Molly,” John said, putting an arm around her shoulders and giving her a hug. “Mary, Rosie and I care very much about you. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t care about you.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she said in a small voice.

“I know,” he said, sympathetically. There was a silence. “Don’t you think what he asked you to do this time was a bit unfair? I know about the…kissing, you see,” he said, wondering if he should be mentioning it.

“Oh, god!” she cried, humiliated. “Does everyone know?”

“No, no,” he assured her. “I figured it out talking to him last week. No one else knows.” _Except Mary_ , he thought.

“He said it was for a case,” she reiterated, twisting her fingers together. “He was so clueless and sweet. Of course I agreed. I shouldn’t have, but you know how…persuasive he can be. The last time he was here we got a little…carried away. I was pretty sure he wanted…more, but I just couldn’t. Not casually like that.”

John thought he might combust. “What…the…fuck,” he spluttered. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. 

“I won’t sleep with him,” she said firmly. “Not unless he loves me. Oh, god, John. I’m mortified. And even worse, suppose that was the last time we might have been together...” More despairing tears flowed.

John shook his head, his blood boiling, wondering what Sherlock thought he was doing. He could be careless with other people’s emotions, but he wasn’t normally cruel. This, however, was unforgivable, toying with Molly’s affection and trust like that. _What the hell was he playing at? What the fuck was wrong with the man_? “Molly, listen to me,” he said, trying to keep his anger under control. “I want you to go wash your face and put on your shoes. We’re going over there.”

“What? No!” she responded, clutching her stomach in dread. “I don’t want to see him! Not like this!”

“I know you don’t want to,” John said. “But it’s important you do. He’s not entirely without compassion. He should see with his own damn eyes exactly what he’s done to you. On second thought, don’t wash your face. He needs to understand what a terrible wreck he’s turned you into.”

Molly flinched at his awkward attempts at comfort. Did she really look that bad? “I don’t want to,” she said. “I’m not...exactly in a generous mood right now. I can’t. It’s self preservation, John. Haven’t I given him enough?”

“It’s not for him,” John explained, firmly. “It’s for you, to reclaim your worth from that son of a bitch. And after I fucking murder him, you can explain to his dead corpse why he shouldn’t treat people like that. Will you come with me, Molly? Will you do it…for yourself?” 

She thought, and then slowly nodded, feeling a little buoyed by his concern, knowing he was trying to help her. “All right,” she agreed, suddenly feeling horribly nervous.

“Good girl,” he said, proud of her. From personal experience, he knew it was no easy thing to confront an unreasonable Sherlock Holmes. “You’re very brave. Let’s go.”

*****


	7. Chapter 7

—Meanwhile, at Baker Street—

Sherlock sat in his chair, alone in his quiet flat, dressed in black trousers and shirt and a dark blue dressing gown, smoking. He was thinking, running a long forefinger slowly along his upper lip, wondering why everyone else seemed so cranky these days. John had recently left in a snit, after unjustifiably calling him a stupid wanker.

He would never admit it, but he felt rather lonely. John and Mary were busy with the baby now, Molly wasn’t speaking to him, his clients were bothersome idiots, and Lestrade was dating someone new, so there was no one to even go get a pint with. Which left Mrs. Hudson. He rolled his eyes at the thought and sighed, needing some attention.

Almost on cue, he heard footsteps on the stairs. It was Mary with Rosie in her arms. He stubbed out his cigarette, flailing his arms to dissipate the smoke, and picked up a book, pretending to be engrossed in it.

“Hello, Sherlock,” Mary said, brightly, stepping into the room. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Not at all,” he responded, putting his book aside. “I have an urgent case, but it can wait.”

Mary chose to ignore this blatant lie, smiling at him instead. “Rosie and I were just in the neighborhood, and we thought we’d come see Uncle Sherlock, didn’t we darling?” She dropped the nappy bag on the floor.

“Have a seat in the Watson family chair,” he offered. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“I’ll make it,” she said. “Sherlock, would you mind taking her for a minute? My back is killing me today, and she’s been a little fussy. Maybe you can work some of your magic on her.” 

Rosie was already leaning towards him, her arms outstretched. “Pbthbla,” she said, eagerly, kicking her little feet.

Sherlock took her and held her close as Mary went into the kitchen and flipped on the kettle. Rosie immediately clutched a lock of his hair in one chubby fist, stuck her thumb in her mouth, wiggled against him, and settled her head on his shoulder. He supported her with a hand under her bum, rubbing her back gently with his other, giving her the calmest sense of security he could provide. She gurgled happily.

By the time Mary came out with her cuppa, Rosie was sound asleep on Sherlock’s chest. He’d covered her with part of his dressing gown to keep her warm. “That’s very cozy,” Mary said, sitting down in John’s chair. She observed them whilst sipping her tea. He seemed more relaxed now, resting his cheek on Rosie’s head, his eyes closed, breathing deeply and evenly. “That’s a good look for you, Sherlock,” she said. “Ever want one of your own?”

“Really, Mary,” he responded, shaking his head and opening his eyes. “Do I look like the parental type?”

“Yes, you do,” she said, nodding. “You’d make a great father. Well, most days.” She chuckled lightly.

“Why do they smell so good?” he asked.

“I think it’s so you won’t kill them when they repeatedly wake you up in the middle of the night, screaming like a banshee.”

“Watson doesn’t do that, surely,” Sherlock protested. “She’s perfect.” He smiled down at the sleeping infant, pressing a kiss to her brow. There was a small silence. “Mary,” he began, a little unsure of himself, “how did you know John was the one?”

“Ah, there’s a tale,” she said. “When I met him, he wasn’t doing very well, because, um, his best friend had killed himself right in front of his eyes the year before.” Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. “Really, Sherlock, I’m not sure you understand what it was like for him, after you died. He was shocked, despondent, and suicidal. John puts on a good, solid front, but he’s had years of trauma from an early age and doesn’t handle it very well at times. He’s prone to shouting and retreating from folks who can help him.” She eyed Sherlock meaningfully.

“I take it you’re trying to draw a comparison whilst chastising me?” he sighed.

“Just a little,” she smiled gently. “You and I, Sherlock, love all the excitement and danger. It feeds our blood. Him, too. But we two can be more morally…ambiguous, don’t you agree? Sometimes we don’t understand when we’re hurting someone very badly. John’s more upright, and even though he pretends not to care when you insult him, he does care. Very much. Anyway, to answer your question, I knew he was the one because…he felt like home. I don’t know how else to describe it. It just felt…right.”

“Mmm,” he rumbled, contemplating, rubbing Rosie’s back.

“Are you thinking of someone in particular?” Mary asked, innocently.

“No,” he responded, a bit too quickly. “I’m just trying to figure out this…mating nonsense. Not that you and John are nonsensical,” he corrected himself.

“Oh, it’s lovely, Sherlock,” she said, “having someone to share things with, to build a life together, to joke around with, solve problems together, to have an intimate level of trust and support, not to mention the…physical delights. With my background, I wasn’t sure it would ever be possible for me, but here I am, happily married to a flawed, wonderful man with a mostly perfect child.”

“I’m glad you’re happy, Mary,” he murmured. “Sincerely.”

“It’s a special thing, Sherlock. You should try it.”

He shook his head, sadly. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Mary. Too dangerous.”

“For you or for them?” she smiled.

“For…her,” he answered, so quietly she almost couldn’t hear him. He shifted in his chair, feeling uncomfortable, his mind flooding with unwanted thoughts. Rosie stirred and stretched, starting to wake up. “Did John send you over here to talk to me?” His tone was a trifle sharp, not sure he liked where the conversation was heading.

“No,” she answered truthfully. “It was my idea. I thought you might like someone to talk to. A neutral party. Do you want to tell me what’s going on, Sherlock? You’ve been snapping at John and there’s something going on between you and Molly. How can I help?”

“Oh, you’re good,” he said, growing suspicious, analyzing her probe and deciding he didn’t want to talk about it. About Molly. “The offer of help instead of a lecture or warning. You’re here for the soft sell, aren’t you? Well, I can assure you, Mary, there is nothing untoward going on between Molly and I. She’s helping me with a case, and—“ Sherlock paused mid-sentence, hearing an angry pair of footsteps pounding up the stairs. “Oh, Christ!” he said. He stood up, quickly thrust Rosie into Mary’s arms and vaulted over his chair, taking refuge in the relative safety of the corner. 

John burst into the room, ready to start punching. “Get over here, Sherlock,” he hissed, his fists clenched. “I’m going to fucking deck you.” Sherlock, his eyes wide, shook his head, keeping his chair between them. “Guess where I’ve been?” John shouted.

“Um…” Sherlock began.

“Guess!” John repeated, his eyes narrowing. 

“Erm…” Sherlock continued.

Mary turned her attention to her husband, half expecting flames of rage to shoot out of his head. He looked so fierce and commanding. Her stomach did a pleasant little flip. “Ooo, John, that’s a bit sexy,” she informed him.

“I’m waiting, Sherlock!” John snapped and turned towards Mary. “Yeah,” he said to her, with an assured smile. “I know.”

“—M…Molly’s?” Sherlock guessed. He wasn’t quite sure what was going on, but clearly John and Mary thought he’d fucked something up. Something to do with the cute pathologist.

“And what do you think she’s been doing?” John bellowed. “Can you possibly, with your enormous detective brain, deduce what she’s been doing?”

“Um…well…,” Sherlock stalled, trying to figure out how to calm John down and get out of this situation. “Oh,” he said, as Molly appeared quietly in the doorway near John, standing partly behind him, hiding. 

She’d been hanging back on the landing at the top of the stairs whilst John charged ahead, not wanting to go in, not wanting to see him, afraid she’d start weeping again, her courage evaporating. She cast her eyes down at the floor, embarrassed, nervously twisting her fingers together. 

Sherlock felt his heart plummet. She looked miserable. Seeing her in pain was a blow he wasn’t expecting, and instantly, he was flooded with remorse. “Oh, Christ,” he muttered. “She’s been…crying?” he said, gazing at her with concern, feeling awful. Mary studied him carefully, watching his reaction. The corner of her mouth quirked up and she nodded imperceptibly to herself.

“I found her sobbing her fucking heart out,” John explained, still furious. “You did that to her, you utter cock. She’s been crying and drinking vodka and eating all the ice cream in London.”

“Don’t forget the cigarettes,” Molly whispered in John’s ear.

“Smoking!” John added, blaming Sherlock for teaching her this vilest of habits.

“What kind of ice cream?” Sherlock ventured. “Java chip?”

“JAVA CHIP!” John shouted. For some reason, the fact that Sherlock likely knew all this and had done absolutely nothing about it made him twice as angry as he had been. He started smacking his right fist into his left palm.

Sherlock winced. “That’s…not good,” he mumbled.

“John, do stop hollering,” Mary implored him. “You’ll upset Rosie. And it’s hardly helpful.”

“Um, do you mind if I sit down?” Molly asked quietly, her nerves getting the better of her. The room was spinning, and faint, gray spots started dancing in front of her eyes. “I’m feeling a little…unsteady.” She swayed and put her hand against the door jamb to support herself, her body starting to tremble from the emotional stress of seeing him.

Sherlock caught his breath and instinctively started towards her, but John stopped him with a glare, took Molly’s elbow, and guided her towards the sofa. “Sit here, Molly,” he said, fussing over her, oozing with gallantry, throwing Sherlock a significant look. He tucked a pillow behind her back. “I’ll get you some water. Or would you like tea?” 

“Tea, please,” she answered, feeling worn out, fanning herself with her hand. She smiled wanly at Mary and Rosie, giving the baby a little wave.

“How are you, dear?” Mary asked.

“I’ve been better,” Molly replied, shooting a sidelong glance at Sherlock. “What are you doing here?”

“Well,” Mary said, with a knowing smile, “I’m a nurse. There’s a situation here that needs...bandaging.”

“An amputation would be better,” Molly growled.

John glared at Sherlock he walked past him into the kitchen. A deadly silence fell over the living room, no one willing to speak. Sherlock, still standing in the corner, fidgeted, his mind cranking at top speed, trying to figure out exactly why he was in trouble. It couldn’t be because of one kiss.

John came back a few minutes later with a mug of tea and half a cheese sandwich he’d found in the fridge that looked safe enough to consume. “Eat this, Molls,” he said. “It’ll make you feel better.” He sat down next to her on the sofa.

“Hey, that’s my sandwich…” Sherlock began, “...which Molly is welcome to have, of course,” he finished with an awkward, accommodating smile as three pairs of narrowed eyes turned on him. Determining he was probably physically safe now from John’s fists, he came out from behind his chair. “Erm,” he continued, a bit too casually, inching towards the door. “Would you like anything to go with that, Molly? I can pop down to Speedy’s for you. Be back in a jiffy. Chips? Jacket potato?”

She stared at him, her mouth full, and shook her head.

“Sit down, Sherlock,” John snapped. “You’re not going anywhere, least of all out of this flat so you can hole up somewhere we can’t find you.”

“Nice try, hon,” Mary added, sympathetically, as Sherlock grumpily returned to his chair and sat down.

“You’re lucky I don’t kick you where it counts,” John muttered. “But I think Molly’s better at it.”

Sherlock’s confusion deepened. What had he done? After all, he was the injured party; he was the one with the sore groin who’d been poisoned. “What is going—“ he began, but was interrupted by footsteps on the stairs, accompanied by the tapping sound of an umbrella on the floorboards. 

“Oh, Christ,” Sherlock said, sinking down in his chair. 

Mycroft sauntered into the room. He smiled and glanced around. “Greetings, all,” he said, nodding his head to each person in turn. “John, Dr. Hooper, Mrs. Watson. A baby.” He turned on his heel to face Sherlock. “And of course, my dear brother.”

“What do you want?” Sherlock asked, in no mood for this. “Have you come to torture me?”

Sensing more than the usual allotment of tension, Mycroft assessed the room with a critical eye, taking in everyone’s body language, their positions on the furniture, the uncomfortable, deafening silence, and Dr. Hooper’s tear stained face. A shadow of sympathy, seen by no one, flitted across his features as he gazed at her.

“No, Sherlock,” he responded, sitting in the chair by the table, his back towards the wall. He propped his hands on the handle of his umbrella. “Today I am merely a messenger for the supreme torturer. Our family Torquemada, if you will. I bring a command from the countryside.”

“Oh, Christ,” Sherlock said.

“You have not yet rsvp’d to Mummy about their anniversary party on Sunday. She sent me to check if you’re still alive, since you won’t answer your phone or call her back.”

“Tell her I died,” Sherlock muttered.

“I’m afraid that excuse only works once,” Mycroft said. “You’ve used up all your chits, Sherlock. You’ll enjoy it. A little country village is uncommonly…quaint, isn’t it? You’ll be going to the carvery at The Pig and Whistle, so delicious, and the Holsteads will be there with their swarms of grandchildren. You know how Mummy loves children, how much she wants grandchildren of her own. It will give you two a source of conversation.”

Sherlock shuddered, trying to disappear into his chair. “Will you be there?” he asked, plaintively, looking at his brother over his shoulder.

“Ah, would that I could be,” Mycroft grinned, wickedly. “But I can’t. Urgent business in Dubai. You understand. Maybe you could take some…snapshots for me? I’m sure everyone will love that.”

“Wonderful,” Sherlock snarled, wondering if this day could get any worse.

“I fear, however,” Mycroft continued in his smooth way, “I have barged into a meeting of some kind.” He raised his brows, expecting to be filled in. 

Before anyone could speak, Anthea appeared, slightly out of breath, in the doorway. “Mycroft,” she said. “Jerome isn’t allowed to park downstairs. Something about painting the kerbs. I told them who you were,” she added,”but the road crew were very obstinate, say they’re under a deadline. I wanted to let you know he’s going to drive around the block until you’re ready.” She looked around, growing curious, and strolled over to Mycroft’s side. Nodding at John, who smiled at her before shooting a guilty glance at Mary, she took out her phone and started to swipe, keeping her ears open.

“Would you all kindly leave?” Sherlock said, his temper dangling by a thread. “Dr. Hooper, I apologize for any wrong _you think_ I did. There. All taken care of. You can go now.”

“Not so fast!” Mycroft objected, holding up a hand. “I’m not leaving until I know what’s going on.”

“Me, too,” Mary added. “And a half-arsed apology for something you don’t feel sorry about isn’t going to cut it today, Sherlock.”

“Agreed,” John said.

“Also me!” Molly chipped in, beginning to feel a bit more solid now that she had some decent nutrition in her system. She’d been reading the temperature of the room and found it warming to her side of things. Sherlock was definitely on his back foot. She happily anticipated the obvious outcome: his complete and utter downfall followed by an abject apology. Maybe even with groveling. She smiled to herself, drifting in her mind, envisioning a calm, pleasant world where she finally held the upper hand. Then, distracted by a noise, she looked towards the door.

Lestrade’s heavy step could be heard trotting up the stairs, and a moment later the detective inspector burst into the room. “Sherlock!” he said, relieved to find him home. “Can you come? Lady Winterbaum’s emerald necklace has been stolen. It’s a bit of a sticky situation, you see, because her husband is a patron of the Police Orphans Fund, and they were at their annual fundraising gala when it went missing—“ He stopped suddenly, looking around at all the people in the room.

“Christ, not now!” Sherlock snapped. “Can’t you see I’m a little busy?”

“It’s worth millions,” Lestrade said, trying to appeal to him. He glanced around the room again. “What’s going on here?” he asked. “You can cut the tension with a knife!” He smiled, taking in the excitement, folded his arms and leaned against the door jamb.

“When you find out,” Sherlock sighed, “do let me know.”

“Sherlock,” Mary said, in a firm voice, starting to get angry. “Stop it. You’re being extremely irritating. We’re trying to help you.”

“I don’t need any help!” he roared, his temper lost. “Not of this variety! Everyone shut up! Get out! Fuck off!”

“Sherlock, you absolute shit!” Mary yelled back. Rosie, startled by the sudden increase in volume, started crying. “Oh, baby,” Mary soothed. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” She stood up and began to walk around the room, rocking her, rubbing her back, comforting her.

“I feel exactly the same way, tiny Watson,” Mycroft said, as Mary passed by his chair. He gave the baby a thumbs up.

Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway. “What’s all this commotion?” she asked, peering into the room. “It’s too loud up here. We’ve talked about this before, young man,” she said, shaking her finger at Sherlock.

“Oh, Christ,” he muttered, looking away. “Another country heard from.”

“Mrs. Turner’s had a migraine for three days now due to your incessant shouting,” she continued, “and I won’t have it any more.” She squeezed past Lestrade who was still standing in the doorway, and looked around at everyone. “Oh,” she said drawing a conclusion. “Sherlock, are we having your intervention now? No one told me, and I have some things to add about the bullet holes in the wall.”

“No, Mrs. Hudson,” John said. “This isn’t an intervention. This is a trial. We’re the jury. Have a seat.” She settled onto the sofa next to Molly and looked around expectantly, smiling. Mary, having calmed Rosie down, reclaimed her place in John’s chair.

“What’s going on?” Lestrade leaned over and whispered to Mrs. Hudson. “Do you know?”

“Oh,” she answered, rather loudly, “I’ve been expecting this. They’ve been canoodling and Sherlock messed it up.” She pointed at the duo in question. Lestrade nodded slowly, not knowing what ‘canoodling’ meant. He indicated Mrs. Hudson should shove over a bit, so she, Molly, and John slid down. Lestrade sat.

John leaned forward around Molly and stared at Mrs. Hudson. “How do you know this?” he asked in disbelief.

She shrugged. “I thought everyone knew. It’s as plain as day. I mean, look at them.”

“I object!” Sherlock shouted, cutting through the moronic prattle, sensing a growing antagonism in the room. A disturbing premonition of loss flashed through him, making him feel unsettled, and his head started to hurt. “If this is a trial, the law states I get a jury of my peers. None of you are worthy enough to be my peers.” He drew a deep breath and looked down his nose at them, trying to intimidate them into dropping this abominable charade.

“Ah, you can’t object, brother mine,” Mycroft corrected, obviously delighted with the possibility of a kangaroo court. “You’re not a barrister, you’re the accused. However, not to worry! I’m sure I can adequately represent you. What’s the charge, Dr. Watson?”

“Being a complete dickhead,” John growled.

“Sorry, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “I must recuse myself. He’s right.”

“In your case, brother,” Sherlock spat, “blood appears to be much thinner than water.”

“I’ll represent you, Sherlock,” Mary offered. “Happy to help. How are you going to plead?”

“Not guilty, of course,” he said, with a spread of his hands, as if there could be any other response.

“Hang on. I’m not done with the charges yet,” John complained.

“Wait one damn minute!” Sherlock said. “Who’s the judge?”

“Molly, I suppose,” Mary answered.

“Not on your life!” Sherlock hollered.

“No,” Mycroft pointed out, “She can’t be the judge, she’s the injured party. The plaintiff. Do stop shouting, Sherlock.”

“I want to be the judge!” Mrs. Hudson volunteered. “I watched very carefully when my husband was in the dock, and I’m positive I could do a good job.” She looked to Lestrade for support.

“You’re disqualified,” Mycroft said, rolling his eyes. “He’s your tenant. I haven’t a clue why, but you love him like a son. You can’t be impartial. That leaves Lestrade.”

“Oh, no,” Greg held up his hands and shook his head. “Not a chance. I’m not doing that. If he gets a guilty verdict, which, hey, let’s admit, is pretty likely,” he laughed, “I’ll never get another drop of help. For the sake of law and order, I’m out. I have to stay neutral. Like Sweden.”

“Switzerland,” John corrected.

“Actually, Sweden is neutral, too,” Mary stated. “Not as famously neutral as Switzerland, but if you examine the neutrality agreements during the war—“

“Ahem,” Anthea interrupted, deciding to take charge of this group of buffoons. “I’ll be the judge.” 

There were a number of nods around the room as this information was absorbed. “Excellent development,” Mycroft agreed, leaning back and rubbing his hands together, ready for the show.

“What are the other charges, Dr. Watson?” Anthea asked.

John stood up and began to take long strides in front of the coffee table, one hand in his pocket, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, going over Sherlock’s many misdeeds in his mind. He paused for effect, staring meaningfully out the window, collected himself, and cleared his throat. “This man,” he said, dramatically pointing at Sherlock, “over the last ten days, not to mention the previous seven years, has taken undue advantage of…my client. He cruelly and willfully manipulated her into conducting a series of experiments—“

“Actually,” Sherlock interrupted, “it was an educational undertaking. Not experimental. If you want to be precise.”

“—Experiments designed solely for his own pleasure, I might add,” John continued.

Sherlock snorted. “Not exactly,” he scoffed. “She was having a pretty nice time, as I recall. Are you going to help me?” he asked, turning to Mycroft.

“All I can be is a character witness,” Mycroft shrugged. “Not much help there, brother mine.” Sherlock grunted, irritated his defense was already folding like a house of cards.

“Your honor,” John said. “Will you instruct the accused to stop interrupting the prosecution?”

Anthea turned to Sherlock. “Stop interrupting the prosecution,” she instructed. 

“Ba-da-tsss,” Lestrade added.

“Don’t I get a rebuttal?” Sherlock asked, feeling put upon. “I believe I’m entitled to cross examination.”

“—Experiments!” John continued, holding his finger in the air, “that took advantage of my client’s gentle nature, her sweet goodness, her loyalty and kindness. Purposefully crafted to, uh, affect her emotional vulnerability. And was he satisfied with the rules designed for her safety or her easy acquiescence? Not at all! Not he…him…he.” He trailed off, unsure of his grammar.

Molly reached up and tugged on the hem of his jumper. “Easy?” she asked, affronted. “Just for the record, I’m not easy.”

“That’s for sure,” Sherlock muttered.

Molly shot him a glare. “And that’s not what happened, John. I told you in the taxi.”

“Shut up, Molly,” John said. “I’m defending you.” He returned to his argument. “No, Like the savage beast he is, he wanted more! Ladies and gentlemen, I must say this to illustrate the depths of his utter callousness, however abhorrent it may be to hear. He took advantage of her, just like he’s done with each and every one of us.” There were nods all around. Sherlock grunted and sunk further into his chair whilst John continued. “This tender flower trembled before him, overwhelmed by his malevolent charm, helpless in the face of his depravity!”

“Jesus!” Mycroft exclaimed. “Are we in a Victorian novel? Is someone getting tied to the train tracks next?”

“It is a bit much, don’t you think, John?” Lestrade said, laughing.

Sherlock snorted, again. “Tender flower,” he muttered, disdainfully.

“And so,” John continued, ignoring the criticism, “in a dastardly manner, he broke the terms of their agreement and…and…ravished her!”

Mary grinned, applauding her husband’s speech, whilst Molly sank back into the sofa and flushed a dark pink. John bowed and sat down. “The prosecution rests,” he said.

“Time to hear from the guilty party,” Anthea sighed.

“But I’m innocent until proven guilty!” Sherlock protested. 

“Not really, dear,” Mrs. Hudson clarified.

All eyes now turned to Sherlock. He could feel them judging him through a long, deepening silence, the tension in the room ratcheting up until thought he might burst. “It was one goddamn kiss!” he bellowed. “Well, and…” he held his hand up in the air, pretending to cup an imaginary breast. “There was no…ravishing!” 

Everyone immediately started talking at once. “Order!” Anthea shouted. “Order! Bailiff, restore order!” She whapped Mycroft’s shoulder with the back of her hand. He picked up Sherlock’s miniature rubik’s cube and banged it on the table until the chattering died down.

“Bailiff?” he complained, questioning his demotion.

“Do you have any kind of a defense?” Anthea wearily asked Sherlock. She went back to scrolling on her phone.

“Yes, I do,” he said, firmly. “She poisoned me!”

Molly was done with this ridiculous bullshit. “What? I never!” she said, standing up. “I did no such thing.” She looked at John for backup. “He’s lying. He is.” She glanced around the room, checking to see who was agreeing with her.

“She poisoned me!” Sherlock repeated, rising from his chair and pointing accusingly at Molly. “She put something in the dinner one night. What was it, Molly? Ecstasy? Oxycodone? Peyote? _Mad Honey_?” Everyone stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “You can’t do that!” he said. “It’s not right. You can’t just give someone drugs like that, without their knowledge!” He finished with a firm nod, assured of his moral position.

“Sherlock!” John snapped, trying to keep his temper. “How many times have you done that to me?” He turned to Mrs. Hudson. “You remember, from the wedding. ‘ _He missed a whole Wednesday once_ ,’” he quoted. “‘ _Didn’t have a clue_.’” She patted his hand and made sympathetic noises. “Not to mention Baskerville,” he grumbled.

“Just a spot of hyperbole, to entertain the guests, John,” Sherlock tried, attempting to calm him. John glowered and shook his head, his mouth compressed into a firm line, his fist clenching.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Sherlock Holmes,” Molly said, nervously, afraid no one would believe her. “I never drugged you. You wanted my help with a case, and all I did was…do as you asked. Sure, it got a little messy and confusing once the kissing started, because I…well…just because. But I fixed a nice dinner which you seemed to enjoy. It was really nice,” she continued, looking down at Mrs. Hudson. “Grilled prawns and everything. I even made tiramisu. From scratch.” Tears started to gather in her eyes.

“Wait a minute, what’s going on?” Lestrade interjected, as if he’d just woken up. “What’s all this about kissing?” He looked at Sherlock, who was suddenly busy removing an invisible piece of lint from the sleeve of his dressing gown.

“What did you think ‘canoodling’ meant?” Mrs. Hudson whispered to Lestrade.

“I dunno,” he shrugged, whispering back. “I thought it had something to do with fishing.”

“Why would they be fishing?” she hissed. Lestrade shrugged.

“Pipe down!” John said, waving an irritated hand at them, trying to concentrate.

“You’re too good for him, Dr. Hooper,” Anthea said, not looking up from her phone. “Both the Holmes brothers are clueless, boorish, and unappreciative.” Mycroft cast an irritated glance at her over his shoulder, whilst Sherlock heaved a beleaguered sigh and rubbed his brow.

“Tell it, girl,” Mary agreed, nodding at Rosie bouncing on her leg. “Men are beasts, aren’t they, Rosie darling? Yes. Yes, they are. Every single one.” 

“Hey!” John and Lestrade said, simultaneously, insulted. Mary just laughed, making faces at her daughter and tickling her. Rosie screamed with delight.

Mrs. Hudson looked up at Molly. “My husband always liked prawns, too,” she said, unhelpfully. “I have a wonderful recipe where you marinate them in yoghurt and lemon zest, and then—“ she trailed off because no one seemed to be listening. All eyes were intently fastened on Molly and Sherlock.

“And then there was the dancing,” Molly continued, sighing blissfully. “I know we didn’t define the ground rules properly but I got the definite feeling you were enjoying it. Anyway, it’s hardly my fault you were so swept away by your endorphins that you thought you were drugged.” She snort-laughed, scornfully.

“What about this kissing thing?” Lestrade ventured, again, looking around at everyone. “Doesn’t anyone want to know about that? That piece of information wasn’t in your blog, John.” He sounded almost accusatory. John waved a dismissive hand at him, trying to follow this new development.

Sherlock laughed, caustically. “Swept away, Molly? By your charms? I don’t think so,” he sneered. “They’re a bit too _thin_.” All the women glared at him with angry, narrowed eyes. Anthea took a small step towards him, her fist clenching. Mycroft blocked her with an outstretched arm. 

Looking around the room and seeing all the confused, irritated and disgusted faces surrounding him, Sherlock was struck with a bad feeling that he was on the losing end of this argument. He didn’t much like it. 

Molly, stung, put her fists on her hips, her back beginning to straighten. “You didn’t seem to mind my thin charms when your tongue was down my throat. So shut up about this, Sherlock. You’re starting to piss me off.”

Sherlock, realizing he had lost, did what many of his gender have done over the centuries when they were caught out: he stupidly tried to bluff his way through. “Yeah? What are you going to do about it?” he goaded.

“You know very well I can lay you out,” Molly threatened.

“You would,” he snapped. “Better watch out, gentlemen,” Sherlock said, mock terrified. “Don’t piss her off because she’ll kick you in the balls!” 

Lestrade laughed and looked at Molly with admiration. Mycroft winced, blinked several times and started to stand up. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat awkwardly, “I should really be going—“ Anthea put her hand on his shoulder, pressing him firmly back into his seat, her eyes wide as she watched the growing crisis. She switched off her phone.

Molly took four strides across the room until she was standing right in front of Sherlock. “You…you bastard!” she yelled, poking him repeatedly in the chest. “You know that was an accident!”

“Do I?” he retorted. “I’m not sure it was. You were just angry because I…unexpectedly hurt your ribs and we had to stop. What kind of revenge is that, anyway? What kind of woman lures an innocent and unsuspecting man to dinner, only to poison him?” He snorted, dismissing her with the easy logic of his deduction. “Sexually frustrated,” he told Mycroft in a stage whisper.

Molly thought she might explode at his stupidity. “Shut up!” she screamed, stamping her foot. “You were Heimliching me to death! I didn’t drug you! You’re an idiot!”

“POISONER!” Sherlock thundered.

“Neighbors!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed.

“What the fuck…” John muttered, getting more confused as the afternoon wore on, giving up trying to track this madness. He looked at Mrs. Hudson, who shrugged, not knowing what was going on either. No one could believe what they were witnessing, but it had the sickening attraction of a train crash.

Molly’s eyes narrowed and she took a small step towards Sherlock, closing the remaining distance between them and growing deadly calm. “You take that back,” she warned. He smiled smugly, shook his head, and crossed his arms. “Sherlock,” she said, her voice low. “Take it back. Right now.”

Sherlock leaned forward a little. “Make me,” he hissed. 

Mary winced. _Stupid move, Sherlock_ , she thought.

Molly growled, an inhuman sound born of grief, combustible rage and seven years of unrequited desire. Her hand flew, but his was faster. He caught one wrist, the other a half second later, and the smack of flesh meeting flesh reverberated like two gunshots around the room. They stood there, centimeters apart, looking angrily into each others’ eyes. Molly was breathing heavily and Sherlock, still gripping her wrists, started to pant.

Mary gasped and covered Rosie’s eyes. John’s face slackened in disbelief as the realization of what they were witnessing finally sank into his stupefied, overtaxed brain. Lestrade made a noise. The tiny bit of air between Molly and Sherlock crackled with tension. “Holy mother of god,” Anthea whispered. Everybody froze in shock.

Sherlock began to slowly push Molly’s arms down and behind her, bending her back, forcing her body closer to his. Pressed up against him, feeling his heart pounding furiously, aware of his iron muscles holding her, trapping her, wanting him so badly she could barely stand it, Molly felt her bones turn to sand. Her knees started to crumple and she unintentionally moaned, not in pain, but with another, more primal emotion. 

“Oo-kay. About time,” Mary muttered, jumping to her feet. “Done here.” She slung Rosie across her hip and bolted for the exit. 

She was closely followed by Anthea, who dragged Mycroft out of his chair by the sleeve of his suit coat. “Wait a minute,” Mycroft said, trying to hang back. “It’s just getting interesting.” Anthea quickly stepped behind him and shoved him out the door. 

Next to move was Mrs. Hudson. She stood up and glanced at John, who sat paralyzed, his jaw hanging open. She grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and started hauling him towards the landing. Lestrade was the last to leave, an odd little smile gracing his lips as he backed out of the room and quietly closed the door.

Sherlock let go of Molly’s wrists as his mouth crushed down on hers. She wrapped her arms around his neck and hung on for dear life, her legs buckling, barely able to support her. He kissed her with a force and a passion neither of them had ever experienced before, needing her, wanting her with every fiber of his being, his desire pouring hotly through his veins. He moaned as their tongues mingled together, clutching her to him as if he might never let go, his hand cradling the back of her head. “Jesus, Molly,” he gasped, coming up for air. She immediately pulled his head down again, needing his lips on hers and his hard body pressed against her, wanting him to never stop.

Loud, angry whispering could be heard from the landing. A moment later the door creaked open and John inched into the room. “Um, sorry,” he mumbled, trying not to look at them. “Don’t mind me. Mary, uh, left the nappy bag…” He crossed the room, located it on the floor by the fireplace, picked it up, and began his retreat. On his way out, unable to help himself, he found he’d paused in the middle of the room and was staring at them, rooted to the spot by the unbelievable scene unfolding before him. The two lovers continued to kiss passionately, moaning, Molly’s hands fisted in Sherlock’s hair, twisting and pulling. She wrapped her leg around his thigh, pulling him towards her.

Sherlock swiveled his head slightly, his lips reddened and a bit swollen, and stared John down with a withering eye. ““Get out!” he barked.

“Right,” John said, scurrying for the exit.

“John?” Molly said, stopping him in his tracks. He turned and raised an eyebrow at her. “Thank you,” she smiled, sliding her arms more closely around Sherlock’s neck.

“Sure thing,” John replied. “Uh, my pleasure.” He pointed a finger at Sherlock. “You’re a fucking idiot,” he declared. “How can you be in love and not know it?” Shaking his head, he left, slamming the door behind him.

Molly choked back a laugh before her eyes filled with tears. She wasn’t entirely certain what was happening; her emotions were all over the place, bouncing around inside her like a pinball. Sherlock turned back to her, gazing at her with awed tenderness as the truth of John’s words finally found their home in his soul. “Oh, Molly,” he said gently, running the pad of his thumb softly over her cheekbone. “Why didn’t you tell me I’m in love with you?”

“Would you have believed me?” she said, beginning to smile a little, the pain in her heart transforming, blossoming into joy. 

“Probably not,” he admitted, bending to kiss her. “Everyone knows I don’t get involved in romantic entanglements.”

“But you’re willing to make an exception?” she breathed.

“Only for you,” he replied, pulling her closer. “And for a limited time. I estimate one hundred years should be adequate. Now shut up,” he commanded, as his greedy, impatient lips claimed hers.

“Sherlock,” she asked, ten minutes later, extracting herself from his eager embrace and tempting mouth. She felt dizzy, her mind whirling with happiness and from the pleasurable heat of his need for her. “Say it again. I need to hear you say it.”

“I love you, Molly,” he said, simply, smiling at her gently. “Do you love me?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” she responded archly, reluctant to give in after the hell he’d subjected her to. He burst out laughing, knowing she was just giving him a hard time. She blushed. “Okay, maybe a tiny bit. But there are other...tests you need to pass.”

“Then I need to start studying,” he said with a smile, lowering his head to kiss her again.

“Sherlock,” she asked against his mouth. “What are you going to do about that black widow? Are you still going to France? I don’t…want you kissing other women, case or not. Or doing anything else, for that matter.” 

He kissed her jaw, working his way over to the delicate hollow under her ear, feeling her pulse throbbing under his lips, wanting to bury himself in her sweetness. “What black widow?” he mumbled, nuzzling her throat, his fingers caressing the smooth, warm flesh of her back under her t-shirt. He unhooked her bra, giving his hands more bare skin to explore.

“The one on the Côte d'Azur,” she said, her hands resting on his chest. She began to unbutton his shirt. “The one you came to me about.”

He pulled back, looked her in the eye, grinned wickedly, and shook his head. “There’s no black widow, Molly.” 

“Wha—?” There was a long silence whilst she absorbed this information. “Oh, my god. You fucking bastard,” she whispered, realization setting in. “It was all a ruse?” 

“Technically, it was a plan,” he nodded. 

“You made a plan…for me?”

“Of course,” he answered, his eyes sparkling. “It didn’t go exactly as I’d expected, but the outcome is certainly satisfactory. Your case of hiccups definitely threw a wrench into the proceedings.”

She smacked his chest, none too lightly. “You are such a bastard! Wait a minute,” she said, thinking. “Does…does this mean you’re not really…inexperienced?”

“I may have exaggerated my incompetence a little,” he admitted, looking less penitent than he should have. “But my god, Molly! You’ve been driving me crazy with your enormous brown eyes and tempting…lips.” He pressed another kiss against them, sighing with satisfaction. “I had to find some way to, uh, _canoodle_ with you,” he finished, waggling his eyebrows at her.

“You could have just asked,” she said, dryly, shaking her head. 

“Where’s the fun in that?” he retorted.

“And did you really think I poisoned you?”

“No!” he said, with a self conscious laugh, not quite meeting her eyes. “Not at all. That was part of my plan.”

“You are such a liar, Sherlock Holmes!” she admonished, trying to be angry and failing. “You’re incorrigible! You put me through hell!”

“I’m sorry, Molly,” he said, holding her close and caressing her. “But from this moment on I’m going to protect you, make love to you for hours on end, and make sure you never need Java Chip ice cream again.”

“Time will tell,” she muttered. “But for what you did, Sherlock, I’m going to tie you up and beat you. Maybe regularly. Make that positively regularly.”

“Good,” he nodded, smiling at her, his warm, adoring eyes twinkling in anticipation. “Let’s start now. I deserve it. I’ve been very naughty and I’m positive it won’t be the last time.” Taking her hand, he pulled her down the hallway to his bedroom.

*****


End file.
